Beasts and Beauties
by Diet of Wurms
Summary: [Pokemon Sun/Moon] [COMPLETED] Money. Fame. Status. After capturing the Ultra Beasts and being catapulted into success by Lusamine, Guzma (thinks he) has gotten everything he's ever wanted.
1. Ferals

**Chapter #1: Ferals**

It was a bright and windy day, that early morning after Po Town fell.

Once news had gotten out, accompanied by the plethora of pictures, video, and frantic phone calls from citizens, all of which splashed across the news, it became clear to the Alolans that something must be done. The police force, which had been supported for years and seemed to have been able to handle the regular outbursts of Team Skull mischief, crumpled entirely within hours―one small cabal of thugs rolled into the Po Town station, and the chief and all his officers scattered like roaches, eventually retreating to more amenable grounds on the east coast of Ula'Ula island.

"Pathetic," Hala grumbled.

Olivia nodded in agreement, skimming over the headline. "They've gotten soft. But it's not just their fault, is it?"

Hala scratched his beard and examined her expression carefully, and though he didn't outwardly express his opinion, one could tell he knew what she meant. A thoughtful grumble came from his throat. "Well, here we are." He looked out over the room, catching the attention of the other captains. "Is everyone here? Who are we missing?"

The kahunas and assorted captains sat in a scattered arrangement of chairs, a sofa dragged in from another room, and one footstool (which Olivia planted herself on, in order to be closest to Hala). They had all gathered on short notice at Hala's home on Mele'Mele―Ilima, Lana, Mallow, Kiawe, Sophocles, Acerola. They knew Mina, the waifish artist, wouldn't be making the meeting―her head was still in the clouds somewhere in Poni Island valley. The figures nervously looked around, measuring one another, and finally Mallow spoke up. "Is Hapu coming? I thought she was standing in for Lopaku―"

"No," Acerola said. "I just talked to Hapu―her grandmommy's sick."

Hala frowned and made another deep, rumbling noise that implied deep thought. "That is unfortunate… And hardly a good omen." As he said this, another thought occurred to him; he searched about. "Where's Nanu?"

"Uncle Nanu's on his way," Acerola mewled. "I woke him up myself; he'll be here, promise!"

Knowing he'd be late caused a wave of unhappiness among them; Kiawe was brave enough to verbalize his impatience. "He'd better hurry up! He's the one with the most to answer for!"

Mallow, sitting close by, swatted at his shoulder. "It's not his fault!"

"Well, he's supposed to protect Ula'Ula, isn't he?"

"It's my job too," Acerola pointed out.

"...And mine," Sophocles mumbled, barely audibly.

"He had a sacred duty, is all that I mean. He should accept responsibility."

...And as if summoned by their argument, the door rattled loudly and opened to reveal Kahuna Nanu.

They stared. He looked like had just rolled out of bed, with his breakfast in hand: a mug of coffee and the nub of his morning cigarette. He returned their looks with a bleary gaze and a muffled, "'Morning, kids."

Acerola squealed, "Morning, Uncle Nanu!"

He winced at the high-pitched voice, planting a hand over one of his ears. "Girl, have some mercy, will ya? It's early, and it's the weekend… Criminy―"

"We're glad you could make it," Hala announced. He just barely disguised his irritation. "But please put that outside."

"Put what―" He looked into his hand, and remembered the burning cigarette. "Oh, gotcha. One sec, kids."

While Kahuna Nanu staggered out onto the doorstep to stamp it out, the rest of them sat silently, holding their breaths for the start of the troubling meeting. It was his island, after all, where this had all happened: they knew emotions would be running high. Nanu didn't show any sign of tension, however―he came back inside, slowly dragged a chair from the wall and into the circle, and collapsed into it with a heave. He spilled a bit of coffee on himself in the process, so he casually wiped his jacket down with his free hand, then realized everyone was gaping at him. He crossed his legs and grunted irritably.

"Well, Hala," Nanu droned, "seeing as you're in the big chair, how about you start us off?"

"How about _you_ start by explaining how this all happened?" Kiawe demanded.

Everyone held their breath; Nanu slowly turned to him, his eyes burning with a powerful disdain, and growled, "Simmer down, kiddo. Wasn't talking to you anyway."

Kiawe frothed and sprang onto his feet. "' _Kiddo_ '?"

"Hala!" Nanu snarled, "Get your house in order, or I will!"

"We could say the same to you!" Kiawe taunted, though by then Hala motioned for him to quiet himself, and Mallow had yanked him back into his seat, scolding him.

As the outbursts settled into silence again, Nanu gazed around himself, seeing their tense faces. He made a deduction and snickered dryly. "Well, isn't this fun. Guess I got picked as the scapegoat before I even got here."

"It was your officers who folded," Hala reminded him.

But Nanu gave him a withering glare. "I'm retired, Hala, and you know it. Those fresh-faced babies they put in that station were doomed with or without me. 'Sides, if you're gonna point fingers, start with yourself."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That boy… Who's taken over Team Skull. One of yours, wasn't he?" With that comment, he grinned cruelly. "What a shining example of your tutelage, eh?"

Just when Hala was about to leap to his own defense, their squabble was interrupted.

"Stop!" Olivia jumped to her feet, barking her admonishment at the two of them. "Is this what you came to do? Take potshots at each other like a couple of children?"

"Hrrngh." Nanu scratched the back of his neck and turned away. Hala, too, quieted.

"There's probably plenty of blame to go around," she continued. "But this meeting is for discussing a plan of action." Seeing she had everyone's silent attention, she decided to make the first proposal. "The most obvious thing to do, of course, is fight back."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nanu lean back and roll his eyes. She chose to ignore it.

"Suffice to say, if we kahunas and captains combine our pokemon, we should be able to drive them out of the town and return things to normal. I know the Alolas haven't seen an operation like this in a long time―but these are mostly kids, and their advantage is in numbers, not strength."

Kiawe crowed. "I agree! If they think they're so tough―let's show them what we're made of!"

"But that sounds… A lot like a war," Mallow said.

Her discomfort was evidently shared with Lana, who asked, "Can't Tapu Bulu do something? Isn't he the island's guardian?"

Suddenly, Nanu guffawed with a loud, hoarse laugh. "The two ladies are on the money." He turned to sneer in Mallow and Lana's direction. "It sounds like a war, huh? Sweetie, that would be 'cause they're _starting_ one. As for the Tapu―trade secret, so listen close―they don't give a rattata's tail about human affairs."

Ilima, not one to allow unchecked cynicism, cut in. "Have you actually tried contacting Tapu Bulu?"

"No, matter of fact, I haven't," Nanu said. "Bulu likes to be left to himself. I can sympathize."

Olivia decided to speak again. "Nanu, I'm sensing you don't like this plan."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "You think so? Heh."

"Please, Nanu," Ilima said, "give us your thoughts."

"All right, all right. You wanna know what I think? It think it's a crappy idea. Let's imagine this, now. You all get together, gather your forces an' all, and invade. You go an start a war with these kids. You'd probably win, but then what? Where are these kids gonna go? Run 'em out of one town, and they'll move onto the next―they trash the new place, we chase 'em down, run 'em out again―and they keep goin'. Soon we've got a mess of ruined towns all over the islands. Unless we arrest the whole lot―or hey, it'll be war, so what's a couple casualties?"

If the discomfort was mild before, it was excruciating now. The young captains fidgeted in their seats, and the other kahunas cast their eyes on the floor and the walls.

"You're right about one thing. They're just kids. Rambunctious and obnoxious, yeah, and they've done their share of property damage, but you overblow this, and it'll be blood on your hands."

Olivia didn't like the direction this had gone―she crossed her arms. "Then what should we do?"

"How about _stay out of it_? It's my island. My responsibility. I don't want any of you goodnicks sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"You mind telling us what you plan to do, then?" Hala asked.

They expected Nanu to blow off this request, but to their surprise, he sighed with cool introspection, sucked a deep sip from his by-now cold coffee, and started to explain. "We've got lots of feral Meowth on our island. I've got lots of free time, you know, being a retired cop―so I've learned a lot, about how to deal with 'em. Here's the thing. They could be the nastiest, spitting creatures you ever seen. Won't let you touch 'em, or hardly look at 'em. But if you take 'em, and bring 'em inside, and make 'em live with you―sure, they scrap with each other, they tear up your furniture, make messes on the floor―but after a while, they get used to you. A couple months of that, and even the most vicious ones curl up in your lap."

"...And what does that mean?"

"Contain them. Let them have Po Town. I'll move in, somehow. Chaperone, do what I can. Shoot, maybe I can work with 'em."

Olivia scoffed. "You want to babysit a bunch of thugs?"

"That's more or less my plan, yeah. Ain't like I got much else to do with my time." He slurped at his coffee again, giving the others time to process his idea. "Welp, that's all I have to say, really." He promptly got up, pushed his chair back, and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Hala demanded. "We haven't voted on our final decision!"

"Go ahead and vote. I'm not changing my mind. Just know, if you invade my island without my permission? You'll come to regret it."

"Is that a threat?"

Nanu just shrugged and scratched the inside of his ear. "A good faith warning. See ya 'round, kids. For better or for worse."

* * *

In the end, Nanu didn't wait to hear their decision. It was that afternoon that he trudged his way up the long path toward Po Town, cutting past the meadow and lifting his coat collar against the cold wind. The way the mountain leaned against this valley pushed stormclouds there almost perpetually, causing torrents of rain to dump over the grassy plain. The ground had an uncomfortable, swampy feel that squished with mud as he trekked it, but thankfully, soon enough, he saw the police station brightly lit in the dark.

Though he could hear music thumping away from inside, he paused a while to take the picture in. A police cruiser, its windshield and windows all bashed in, sat dejected nearby. Neon paint smeared the exterior of the building in gaudy symbols and slang, and some of the interior furniture, probably pushed through a broken window, soaked up the rain. _What a mess_. After a minute or so passed, one grunt opened the front door, and the sound of loud laughter, rap music, and broken glass all rolled out into the night. The grunt said something to the others―but Nanu couldn't understand it, not from this far away.

In the brief moments before he walked up to the grunt and talked to them, he thought on those children―and pictured them, as he remembered them, running stupidly about with their shiny baubles and dreams. These children all wanted to be someone, once, hadn't they? The cream of the crop had since floated to the top of the hierarchy, becoming captains and champions, but what of these? These lumps in the flour, this chaff from the wheat―dreamers with no dreams left, who had every ambition swallowed by mediocrity and the chokehold of tradition…

 _I get it,_ he mused. _The world's spit on them, and they're spitting back._

Those thoughts made him hate being a kahuna all over again.

"Hey!" The grunt called out at him. "Hey, you! Who's there?"

So then, it was too late to surprise them. Nanu pushed his way forward, doing his best to stay in the light.

"A cop?" The grunt took notice of his outfit immediately and yelled into the station. "Yo, a _cop's_ here, fam!"

"What?"

"Where!"

"Get 'im!"

Hilariously, they practically fell over each other to crowd through the doorway and give him nasty, unwelcoming looks. A girl in blue pig-tails approached him first, puffing out her chest to look tougher than her small stature implied. He didn't realize it until she got close, but she waved a small knife around to back her posturing. "Back off, copper! Didn't we chase yo' butts outta here?"

He didn't flinch or move back. "Not me, blue. Doesn't matter, though. Not here to fight you. Need to have a chat with your boss."

"Big G? Yeah, right, old man. You ain't gonna talkin' to nobody, not after I'm done with you." The knife in her hand swayed, swayed back and forth, like a serpent waiting to strike.

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Blue. I've had a long day. Don't wanna have to man-handle a little thing like you. Now put the knife down, and―"

The blade interrupted him with a silvery, whispering sound as it swiped toward his chest. He easily dodged―she was bold, but unskilled―and when she clumsily toppled over herself, he swooped in, grabbed her wrist, and let her fall the rest of the way to ground.

He had her arm straight up in the air, and twisted it painfully against his knee. She started screaming in pain.

"Hey!"

"Let her go!"

He felt an empty soda can launch against his head; he ignored it and prayed they wouldn't throw anything more damaging. "I can break your arm like this, blue. A little pull this way―" He demonstrated; she shrieked again. "Drop the knife."

"Stop!"

"Leave her alone, copper!"

They closed in around him like hyenas, but didn't dare physically intervene. The girl was moaning, writhing, and begging in the mud. The rain drenched them both for some long seconds until finally, her grip loosened, and the knife dropped.

He stepped on it and let go of her. A swirl of curses, threats, and taunts started around him, but even as she got up and limped back to the group, none of them followed through. _Mobbing Murkrow. All noise._

"I said it before, and seeing as you all have only a couple brain cells between you, I'll say it again: I don't want to fight. I want to see your boss. Now."

* * *

It's hard, Nanu decided, to sum up a relationship with a town. They at first distrusted him, granting him cheap rent for use of the police station only because they needed the easy cash flow. They called him "cop" and "old man" and "geezer." But from then on, the picture gets fuzzy: within months, his name became a polite "Mr. Nanu," or "Officer Nanu," and within even more time, the grunts favored the warmth of "Uncle," as in, "'Morning, Uncle Nanu!" and "Hey Uncle, how are the Meowth today?" (because old habits die hard, and the empty space in the station could do nothing else but fill up with ferals).

He couldn't decide if all meant something. He didn't know what difference he had made in that year. Sometimes it felt like he could save them, bond with them―bring over some malasadas, swap stories, sit patiently through their ungodly freestyle sessions. Plumeria proved more amenable than the boy, but even Guzma, especially after a drink or two, came to crave his paternal doting. (And after _too_ many drinks, Guzma would let it slip, slurring and whiny, "Da-a-ad, I know―").

But other days, it all fell right back to the spitting, hitting, and biting―thrown beer bottles and threats to cut him open like a fish. He comes home, it's covered in graffiti, and he just doesn't know.

Still, it wasn't the worst life he had chosen for himself. The rent was cheap. No day was boring. And he didn't need to have a roommate, which meant every night, he was greeted the same way―the mewls and purrs of his loyal clan. Meowth, at least―he mused as he scratched their ears and murmured sweet-talk―don't care who you are, or whether you've failed, or whether you're very interesting.

He could live like this forever.


	2. Scratch My Back

**Chapter 2: Scratch My Back**

 **Two years later...**

Madame President Lusamine did one more walk about the room, straightening every object she passed―the chairs, the plates, the tea cups, the pictures on the wall, the curtains on the window. Anyone could have rightly told her that such care was unnecessary―she was not meeting a king or a diplomat today, as she did other days, when her halls hosted the most glorious figures in the vast continents.

She checked the mirror again. Licked down the last stray hair, adjusted her pearl necklace, and tightened the pull of her white, lace-trimmed dress. Pose from the front… From the back… She could not identify a single flaw. A wide smile perfected her face.

In those few moments before her guest arrived, she considered her fortitude in difficult circumstances. These months had not been kind to her. After a long year of knowing that one child had betrayed her, she recently experienced the pain of another betrayal―a deeper one, from the child she had truly believed in. Not just betrayal―sabotage, or all her hopes and dreams.

But Lusamine did not give in so easily. She believed that fate might close a door, but would open, for her, another window.

Her tea room would be the perfect environment for this new lease on fate. Unlike the dining hall, which had gaudy chandeliers hanging above a long stretch of immaculate table, the tea room carried a certain intimacy and lightness. The table in the center of the room seated two, three at most, and the east-facing window allowed a sweet, salty sea-breeze to wash in the moonlight. Bright flowers arranged in a vase on the side table, permeating the room with their aroma. To her, this room perfectly spoke of the love she felt―her sweeping, bright, all-devouring love. In fact, when she sat in this room, one could swear that the room was as vital to her as her heart.

Mrs. Wicke came to the door to tell her the guest was ready.

"Bring him in," she sighed.

...The creature that entered the door―there was really no other way to describe him―certainly could be called imposing. The Team Skull Leader Guzma stood at an awkward, lanky height, which he compensated for by slouching over like a ghoul; his ridiculous sunglasses covered his face and the hood of his jacket was up. Before she could even attempt a greeting, he swivelled his head around the room suspiciously, as if worried that something was prepared to leap out and bite him.

"Mr… Guzma, I presume?"

He snapped to attention, but she couldn't read his facial expression, not with those sunglasses.

"If you don't mind," she started, trying to be gentle, "would you remove the items from your head?"

"Aw, yeah," he slurred, smacking the hood down and yanking the glasses upward. The force of his movements pushed his mess of clumpy white hair backward and out. "Sorry, lady, I was tryin' to be, you know, inconspicuous."

She briefly wondered if he knew what that word meant.

"M-a-an, lady, you have got quite the place here. You must have money, huh?"

She redirected his attention by offering her hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Guzma. I'm Madame President Lusamine. I trust the trip here was a pleasant one."

"Yeah, hey," he quipped, shuffling over and grabbing at her hand. He shook a little too hard. "Nice meeting you."

The boy was a little raw, she told herself. A little… unformed. But at least he seemed housebroken.

Mrs. Wicke appeared suddenly beside him. "Can I take your coat?"

"What? Nah, it's good." He bunched up the coat around his shoulders, warding her off as if she were a thief. He obviously wasn't comfortable with a stranger handling his personal belongings.

Mrs. Wicke left them momentarily, and Guzma hadn't moved very far, still lingering in the doorway. From his expression, Lusamine guessed two things were going through his head: first, he was vastly underdressed for the occasion (did it bother him? She couldn't tell), and second, Lusamine did not look anything like he had imagined. Perhaps in reading her letter, he pictured her as some stuffy old woman, or imagined her with the curt, sharp command of a woman in business attire. Not a woman of her softness and angelic glow.

The boy, no doubt untrained in self-control, couldn't help himself. He looked… Up, down, traced her figure, thought about it… And she noticed every glance.

"Please come in," she said.

He dutifully walked in and plopped into his chair. It took a minute for him to realize, though, that Lusamine was still standing next to her chair and giving him an expectant, but polite, look. He puzzled over her reaction. "Are you gonna sit, or…"

"The gentleman," she said calmly, "always seats the lady."

"What?"

She smiled, patiently repeating, " _The gentleman always seats the lady_."

"Oh!" Flustered, he stood to his feet, hurried behind her, and started pulling on the chair awkwardly. While his technique proved unpracticed, Lusamine was eventually successfully seated with no injury.

He rushed back to his chair, visibly relieved.

Lusamine studied him as he settled in. The unfamiliar context into which he'd been thrown―a glistening, rich, pristine place―had begun to take a toll on him. He shrank where he sat, becoming withdrawn and wary of his surroundings. She labelled him mentally. _Malleable._

"So Miss… Miss…" He had obviously forgotten her name.

"Miss Lusamine. You can call me Madame President."

"Miss L," he continued, compromising, "I wanna know―"

Mrs. Wicke appeared as if from nowhere beside him. "Would you like some tea?"

"―Huh? No."

"How about some coffee?"

Irritation spiked his voice. "Nah, thanks, I'm good."

Mrs. Wicke took the hint and moved to Lusamine, filling her cup with fresh tea and fixings.

Guzma got the sense that they weren't ready to delve into the meeting just yet. He shook his head and tried to think of something to talk about. He kept looking in every corner, tracing his eyes along the walls and through doors, as if searching for something. Details didn't add up, so he asked, "You live here alone?"

"Yes. For now. My husband is… gone, and my children left me."

"Oh." He waited for her to continue, but in the ensuing awkward silence, he shuffled his feet. "Uh, sorry?"

"A mother does her best to love and care for her children, but they make choices, too. I can only wonder… What mistakes I must have made… I must have been a terrible mother."

Guzma's hairs stood on end; she looked like she might cry, so to diffuse the situation, he mumbled, "You, uh, seem nice enough to me."

"What a kind thing to say," she purred. With an elegant sweep of her hand, she cleaned a single tear from her luxurious lashes. "I do owe my children one thing. You came to my attention through my son. He's worked for you―you've taken a liking to him, haven't you?"

"Your son?"

"My little boy… Gladion."

Before he could stop himself, he let out a snort of a laugh. "What!? He's your son? Pffsh! Wow!" He noticed her leaning back to dodge his spittle, so he meekly cleared his throat to signal he was going to tone it down. "Uh, I mean, yeah, I guess I see the family resemblance."

"While he brought his troubles on himself, I do appreciate your attention toward him."

Those words, in that particular order, triggered a strange impulse in Guzma's brain; he twisted the heavy ring on his finger and blurted stupidly, "It's nothing _weird_."

She sipped at her tea, then gave him a querying look over the ceramic cup.

"Uh, y'know, it's not something _weird,_ if that's what… You were wondering."

"I'm not certain what you mean," she said, a little cross that she didn't, "because there's nothing strange about helping a person in need."

"Y-yeah. That's what I meant."

Lusamine watched carefully as he fidgeted and turned various colors. She made another mental note. Her noticing his softer side had spurned this outburst―interesting. _Insecurity. Obsessed about others' perceptions._

"So, wait." Guzma's eyebrows stitched together in the form of deep, difficult mathematical thought. "If Gladion's your son, then you've gotta be…"

"It is not normally proper to ask a lady her age," she said, "but I can indulge your curiosity, if you wish."

"...All right," Guzma allowed, waving a hand. "I'll bite."

"I'm forty-two, as of this year."

All the money she spent on her physical upkeep was worth it, she thought, for these moments alone: when she proudly waved the number in front of a young man, and had the privilege of watching their expression turn, like they had just _discovered_ something horrible about themselves. Guzma was no exception. He sort of laughed at first, choked on the number, and descended into a quiet that she pinned immediately. _Ah-hah, Mr. Guzma. That thought you had when we first met―that nasty little thought you entertained when you stole that look―how does it sit with you now?_

Then, to her genuine shock, he managed to speak, haltingly, politely. "You looking good, Miss L."

Her laughter forced her to put down her tea; it rang out like clear, silver bells in the fresh morning air. "Oh, my!" She placed a hand to her chest. "I must say, Mr. Guzma, you are full of surprises!"

He smiled awkwardly and tried to laugh, too, but he didn't get what was so funny.

"Well! Let's not delay any longer, shall we? As I stated in my letter, I have a proposal for you that I think can benefit us both."

"Cool." He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. "I'll hear you out, Miss L. Make it good, though."

"Thank you. Some of this will require some technical background―I hope that suits you?"

He shrugged indifferently. "Whatever."

"...My husband―rest his soul―discovered the existence of wormholes that can transport both energy and matter between our dimension and another. Our researchers call this other dimension 'Ultra Space.'"

He didn't look particularly intrigued―but he didn't tune out. She took this a good sign.

"At Aether Paradise, our labs have been experimenting with and monitoring these wormholes; our best current evidence shows that, within this dimension, there are... Alternate beings. Living creatures analogous, though materially different, from pokemon. For clarity's sake, we call them beasts."

"So… There are monsters, living in some other world."

She folded her hands and gave a glowing smile. "An apt summary, Mr. Guzma! Now, the environment in which the beasts live is very harsh. To survive, these beasts must be incredibly powerful. We are developing a device that will allow us to capture and use them."

She expected he would need more time to process all this, but a steep frown showed some deep thinking going on. "Why would I want to help you―"

She cut off his question to reach over the table and place a hand on top of his. He lurched a little at the sudden touch, but didn't remove himself from his seat. "Can you imagine?" she hissed desperately. "Those poor beasts… Lost in a dark, cruel place, devoid of compassion and gentleness―does not such a condition demand our moral action? If I have the opportunity, then don't I also have the _obligation_ to save them, and give them my love?"

"Uh…" He gawked at her, not sure what to make of this sudden, hopelessly sad stream of consciousness. He thought about moving his hand, but couldn't finally decide to do it. Lusamine looked at him intently, waiting for an answer, so he gave the one he thought she wanted. "...Yes?"

At last, she lifted her hand and floated back against her chair. A smile, warm and sweet as honey, spread across her lips, and her voice dripped. "To do this… I need you. Will you help me?"

* * *

Guzma forced himself to do a hard reboot.

None of this had gone as planned.

When he first grabbed the letter from a trembling mailman outside the city gates, he saw the golden symbol representing the Aether Foundation and almost threw it away on that merit alone. The group had been nothing but a huge pain: constantly harassing his grunts in other cities, interrupting their operations, taking back pokemon they had fairly snatched. He expected the contents to either be a threat or some weaselly plea for compassion.

But when he opened it, he found a neatly hand-written letter. It contained no accusation of wrong-doing. No pleas. Just an out-pouring of prim, flowery prose that forced him to find a dictionary in order to suss it out. In the end, he determined uncertainly that it had something to do with a business deal, which would be discussed at Aether's base.

 _What the heck_ , he remembered thinking. _I'll get to see how the other half lives._

He planned on balking at the deal and messing with some uptight business hag, while getting a free meal out of the process.

Instead, he was sitting in front of an empty tea-cup and a sweet, otherworldly being that might have glided its way down from heaven―a lonely, sad, beautiful woman whose body whispered _yes,_ eyes purred _please,_ and lips sighed _closer_. Her age had jolted him, to be sure, but the number faded after a while against the harsh glow of everything else. And when she touched his hand, her fingers pulsing with radiant warmth, he felt his stomach do a flip.

 _I need you_.

He tried to swallow. His mouth had gone dry, and he wished he had asked for some water.

 _Will you help me?_

Butt heads. Say no. It was his personal rule. But she looked so… frail and needy, in that moment. And how many young men can really resist the siren call of a gorgeous woman in distress?

* * *

He choked out his question. "How?"

His response made her smile wider. "I need two things. The first―some crucial equipment was stolen from our lab―without it, we cannot trigger controlled openings of the wormholes. I need your organization to find the thief and steal the equipment back. That is," she said, "what you do, isn't it? Steal things?"

"...Yeah."

"Then this should be simple!" She leaned over, plucked a folder from a white briefcase, and handed it over. "Here's the dossier. It gets a bit technical, but the crucial information is there on the first page."

He took it, glanced at the picture, and tilted his head. "It's a pokemon?"

"Think of it more as… A ball of potential energy."

"Whatever." He dropped it onto the table. "What's the other thing?"

"That? That is another matter. Once our capture technology is prepared, I will be making the first trip to Ultra Space… And I need a strong, daring trainer to accompany me."

That bit of flattery was a bit on the nose, even for Guzma. "Is it dangerous?"

"The risk is incalculable. But should we succeed, we will have exclusive access to the most powerful beings science has ever discovered."

"Do _I_ get to keep some of them?"

"Oh, that's one part of your compensation. As for the other…" She flashed a smile. "This is where I think your interests truly lie." With one more flick of her wrist, she produced a brilliantly-colored advertisement. The paper read, "THE AETHER FOUNDATION INVITES YOU TO EXPERIENCE THE SUPREME ISLAND CHALLENGE AT AETHER PARADISE!"

Guzma didn't get it. "Uh… so... "

"When a trainer completes the Alolan island trials, what else can they do? They are at the peak of their career, but no challenges remain. I believe it is time to innovate. With the beasts at my side, I will host the most daunting challenge of them all! Trainers from around the world will flock here, all for the sake of battling these unique creatures! Of course, we'll have to require a fee―a donation to the Foundation―"

"That's great, but―"

"We'll need a kahuna and a captain, won't we? To have a proper island challenge, that is."

"You…" He perked up. "You want me to be captain?"

"Don't sell yourself so short, Mr. Guzma! I'm not much of a trainer―and captains do so little by way of battling challengers, don't they? I'm asking you to become Aether's kahuna."

For a while, he went completely quiet with shock.

She filled his silence with a flurry of papers drawn from her carrier case. "Naturally, the Foundation would pay you for your services―you would be compensated for room and board, travel expenses, a personal stylist (you'll be making media appearances; it's truly a must), your officiating wardrobe―" She pushed a document to him, pointing. "It's all detailed here in the contract."

"How much―"

She anticipated the question and pointed to the bottom number.

His eyes crossed a bit when he first saw it; he blinked, stuck his finger on it, rubbed his head, and asked, "Uh, what's… 'Per,' ' _per diem_ ' mean?"

"That's payment per day."

"Every _day_?" He began visibly sweating. "Wait, this isn't… This isn't real, is it?"

"Hmm?"

"This…" He smiled, like he had caught her in the act. "This is some kinda joke on me, right? Ha, ha, at big, bad Guzma, the sucker!"

"That would be quite an elaborate―and strange―joke, don't you think?"

Her logic definitely struck him; he looked at the paper again, scratched his head nervously, and looked up, searching her expression. "I should, uh, have a lawyer look at this, right?"

"Oh, yes, indeed! When it comes time, we'll have a lawyer go through it with you―"

"Not your lawyer," he countered hotly. "I want _my own_ lawyer."

"Lawyers cost money, Mr. Guzma. Quite a lot, in fact. Do you have the resources to hire one?"

By his strained silence, she knew he didn't.

"Well." She placed her hands on the papers in front of her. "Let's put a pin in that, shall we? Besides, this contract isn't on the table quite yet, remember? This can't happen without your contribution. So first… Return Cosmog to me. Second… you help me capture my beasts. And then… _Only_ then, does this become negotiable." She placed her hand on the contract and pulled it back toward herself. She revelled in watching his expression change as his dream, everything he ever thought he wanted, slid back and disappeared into a folder. "Do you think you can do that?"

He answered forcefully. "Obviously."

"Good. Now," she said, nodding to Mrs. Wicke, "it appears dinner is ready. Shall we go?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Lusamine did not move. Guzma gradually worked his way to his feet, thought for a second, then proceeded to walk behind her to pull out the chair for her.

(Oh, how she _beamed_.)

* * *

When Nanu saw the limo pull past the station, he knew it smelled like trouble. He had poked his head out, watched it disappear into the dark horizon, and grumbled to himself. He pulled a cigarette pack from his coat and tapped it without looking, only to find that it was empty. "Hrngh." He gazed out toward Po Town and its looming walls. Just as he decided to make an investigatory trip, a voice called out to him.

"Hey, Uncle."

He turned in surprise. A young grunt―a boy, from what he could tell, ( _cripes, they get younger every day_ ) stood off near the lamp post. A Meowth was rubbing the boy's ankles and whining for food. Nanu frowned. "Hey, kid. I know you?"

"Uh, I 'unno," the boy responded. "I know you."

"Whatever. I'm walking to Po Town, so I need you to run an errand for me."

"What kinda errand?"

He peeled a few crumpled, moist bills from his pocket. "I need you get me some cigarettes. The Sunrise brand, not that cheap crap from Kanto."

The kid looked at the money, but shook his head. "Don't they card for that?"

Nanu huffed irritably. "...You don't have a fake ID? What kinda useless punk are you?"

The kid shrugged and stooped down to pet the Meowth. "I 'unno. I'll take the money, though."

Snort. "Yeah, I'm sure you would." He stuffed the money back down into his pocket, but didn't immediately stalk off. The boy caught his attention again. He ended up watching him for a solid minute, just petting the critter, just letting it bump his legs and wind its way between them. "It likes you," he finally said.

"Yeah, I guess."

"You want it?"

The kid turned shy and didn't have an answer.

"Look, I got too many already. You'd be doing me a favor. One less mouth to feed, and all that."

"Okay."

He waited for the boy to say anything else, but these kids had no home-training. "...Don't thank me, or anything."

"Screw you, old man."

Nanu guffawed and turned for Po Town. "Ye-eah, you're welcome, kid."

* * *

Getting into Guzma's room was no problem; around this time of night, the grunts scattered throughout Po Town searching for food, leaving the room unguarded. He knocked, and a beat of silence later, he decided he had been right: Guzma left.

In a _limousine,_ of all things.

"...The heck have you gotten into now?" He shook his head. He doubted he would find any real clues, but snooping always picked up his mood.

He turned the lights on and found it had its usual crud-infested mystique―dried husks of pizza pushed under furniture, fresh graffiti paint on the wall, empty beer bottles, and that idiotic throne chair that Guzma had dragged in from God-knows-where. Nanu scratched his chin. _What a dump_.

He bee-lined for Guzma's laptop and prodded at it, but the lock-screen popped up and stonewalled him immediately.

"Eh."

Where else could he look? It wasn't as if Guzma had a work desk. He started for the liquor shelf―seeing as Guzma frequented it often enough.

...But unbeknownst to him, a monster lurked behind him. It crept forward… It tensed its muscles… It bent close over him, waiting for its moment...

...Then bumped its head into the center of his back.

"Oof!" A bit startled, but not hurt, Nanu balanced himself against the bed and turned to the Golisopod. "Cripes, you scared me!"

Undeterred, it whistled and clicked and otherwise made an excitable racket.

"You smell it, don't you? You greedy lug." He sighed, stuffed his hand inside his pocket and drew out a couple beans. "Come on, eat up. Just don't tell the kid―he'd probably 'rap' at me about it, or whatever."

The Golispod warbled and snatched them out of his hand, swaying its huge body in a sort of happy, rhythmic fashion as it chewed.

"You gonna help me? His computer's locked, so unless I find some sort of paper trail, I'll probably be stumped."

It stared blankly at him, waiting for more food.

"All right, here's what I'll do…" He reached back into his pocket.

Nanu had decidedly mixed feelings about the Golisopod. Being Guzma's favorite, it was over-trained, over-powerful, and spoiled bloody rotten. Its most notorious habit was breaking out of its ball at any old time it wanted and roaming the mansion. It had gotten fat from eating human food all day, and could be a real bully if you held food that it wanted. Guzma found its mischief hilarious, so he never scolded it, exacerbating the problem.

Nanu tried, though, when he could, to teach it some manners.

"Hey! Stay. Now, listen." He held up a bean. It stepped forward a bit, and he gruffed, "No, you don't. Here's the deal. You find me a lead about where he went, and I give you a treat. Got it?"

It tilted its head, looked longingly at the bean, and shuffled its feet in frustration.

"Come on, you lard. Clock's a-tickin'."

The Golisopod grunted, turned for the dresser, and started clapping its oversized arms around, hoping to find an offering. A few wooden thumps later, it shuffled hurriedly back with a sock dangling on its claw. It then―very gingerly―dropped it into his hand, and sat back expectantly.

Nanu gave it a dry look. "Uh-huh. You think I'm an idiot, don't you?"

It warbled again, gesturing at the bean with impatience.

"...Well, you'd be right." He handed the bean over. "It's my fault for not, eh, being more specific."

The Golisopod chewed, and he started toward the drawer to replace the loose sock. He stooped down carefully―he had to watch his back―and a young girl's voice spoke over him.

"Hey, Officer. Don't you need a warrant?"

He straightened up and turned to find Plumeria leaning in the doorway, watching him with some amusement.

"Old detective instincts," he said. "Hard to give up."

"What are you investigating?"

"Sock-related crimes, apparently."

Golisopod whirred gleefully at the sound of Plumeria's voice, so she slapped her knees and whistled. "Hey Goli-i-i! C'mere, boy!"

It charged past Nanu and stuck its face into her open hands. She proceeded to rub its cheeks, scratch its chin, kiss its nose, and burble baby-talk at it; unable to contain its excitement, it screeched and stomped the floor.

"Good boy! Good boy!"

"Ugh." Nanu shuddered. "How do you plant your lips on that thing?"

"How can you not?" She shook Golisopod's head back and forth playfully. "He's such a cutie! Yes you are! But you gotta go back in your ball now! Yes you do!" With that song and dance done, she dug the ball out of the upturned bedsheets and put him back inside. She placed a hand on her hip and saw Nanu digging through Guzma's sock drawer. "What's up?"

"I'm looking for Flunkie; you know where he went?"

"… He went out, didn't he? And, you shouldn't call him that."

"Why? It hurt his feelings?"

"Yes, actually."

He studied her face for a second to gauge her seriousness, and to his surprise, she appeared to be dead-so. He sighed. "All right, Rainbow, but just 'cause you asked so nice." He kept rummaging through clothes. "You don't know who he's meeting, do you?"

"No."

"Is it a date?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "How should I know? Are you jealous or something? Think you're gonna find some girl's underwear?"

He paused, then smirked at her. "Who am I to judge?" He dug deep into the drawer, apparently searching for any items that might have been squirrelled away for secrecy. "You see that limo that picked him up? The whole thing looks fishy."

"You're worried about him?" She sounded surprised.

Nanu didn't respond at first, then mumbled, "Shoot, aren't _you_?"

Plumeria thought on this for a second, and though she didn't admit it, it was true. Guzma hadn't been himself lately―he had been more restless, more prone to drinking himself into a stupor, more enraged by the slightest conflict. It had gotten even worse after Guzma found that homeless kid―Gladion. The kid was stupid-strong, but not particularly loyal, and Guzma's insistence on hiring him caused some friction in the gang. What was it that Guzma saw in him? Plumeria could guess: she, after all, remembered what Guzma was like when they first met, when he first ran from home. She recognized in both Gladion and back-then-Guzma the same desperation for freedom: the relief at finally clawing their way out of home, the raw rebellion of wearing tacky gothic clothes, and their broken ability to emotionally connect.

In other words, Guzma looked at Gladion and saw himself.

No wonder he pampered, defended, and gave leeway to the little snot-nosed brat. _So what if he doesn't live at the HQ? So what if he doesn't wear the gear? So what if he doesn't obey orders? So what if he gets paid too much?_

Plumeria reached out and touched Nanu's forearm. "Hey, Uncle."

"Huh?"

"… He'll probably tell me… Eventually. I promise, if it turns out it's bad, like, really bad? I'll come to you."

If Nanu had the capacity to look touched, he might have shown it then. He blinked. "I ain't lookin' to make you a rat."

"No, it's okay. I trust you."

"...Hmph. Just as well. Don't think he's hiding any clues in his sock drawer, anyway." He pushed it shut. "Say, Rainbow, you got any cigarettes? Sunrise, none of that cheap Kanto crap..."


	3. The Mirror

**Chapter 3: The Mirror**

"Hey!"

Branch Chief Faba almost jumped out of his skin. He narrowly saved himself from toppling face-first into the floor after his foot caught on something large and firm in the middle of the hallway; it was the loud, inhospitable voice that actually caught his attention soon enough to save him. He yelped, fumbled, caught his balance.

"Ow!" the other voice grunted.

Faba recovered and turned to scold whoever had gotten in his way. But then he saw who is was: _the boy_.

Faba had seen Guzma in Lusamine's home enough times to both recognize and purposefully avoid him. The young man had a sour temper and no respect for his elders―expect for, naturally, Lusamine, whom Guzma seemed all too happy to follow around, panting and whimpering for attention. Everyone else, Faba included, got the nips and bites.

Guzma rubbed his ankle and muttered harshly. He sat in a chair against the wall, but had stretched his extraordinarily long legs out in a relaxing pose and gotten distracted scrolling through pictures on his phone. To be fair, Faba was distracted, himself―and so neither noticed their collision course until it was too late. "God, watch where you're going, huh? I should pound you!"

Faba sucked in a breath, ready to say something, but thought better of chiding Lusamine's new pet. He cleared his throat and brushed himself off. "What― young man, are you here for something?" He glanced around, looking for supervision. Apparently, Guzma was a frequent enough visitor that they let him roam about. _How annoying_.

"Yeah, I'm waiting on Miss L. Aren't you a lab guy? She said we're touring it today, or something."

"Yes, quite right. Wait here."

"That's what I've _been_ doing," Guzma shot back hotly. "Who _hired_ you?"

Faba grimaced and kept walking.

* * *

When Faba entered Lusamine's bedroom, he found her calmly seated before her vanity table and applying her mascara. He knew she noticed his entrance via the reflection, but announced himself anyway.

"Good morning, Madame President."

"And good morning to you, Branch Chief," she said. "I trust everything is in order. But is something on your mind?"

Faba, surprised, tapped a finger to his lips. That woman… She can spot reservations from a mile away. He knew better than to dodge the question. "I have to say," he said, "your taste in protégés has gotten worse. Whatever is it that you see in that unkempt mutt?"

She put her mascara aside and fluttered her lashes into the mirror. "I see great things in his future."

A dry smile spread over his lips. "Hmm… He is a gullible little tramp, isn't he? Eating out of your hand over talk like that." Faba shook his head. "...This is why I stay away from women."

"Oh, is _that_ the reason?" Lusamine teased, folding her bangs back.

"Don't get me wrong. He's your toy, Madame President, and you should feel free to play with him as you like." He rubbed his chin. "I just hope you don't intend to let him clomp around my lab like a brute."

"Really, dear, you underestimate my talents. Under my guidance, he is becoming quite the gentleman."

"Madame President, the day you make _that_ into a gentleman is day I take off my gloves and eat them."

She tilted her head and gave him a coy, sweet, devilish little smile. "Faba! I never thought of you as a gambling man."

He paled a little and crossed his arms. He decided not to let her take him at his word. "The lab is ready for you. I hope I'm not expected to escort him down?"

"Oh, no. Send him here, please." She swiveled back around and started brushing her hair in long, even strokes. "You won't mind waiting for another hour for us, will you? I must speak with him in private."

He cocked an eyebrow. "To your bedroom already? You really do intend to spoil him."

"Faba," she sighed, putting on airs of disapproval but not dropping her smile, "you are a _wicked_ creature."

* * *

Guzma greeted her from the doorway. "Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Mr. Guzma," she called out, pleased that he had remembered his etiquette. "I'm so sorry―you came all this way, and the lab technicians aren't quite ready for us yet. Please, come in! It shouldn't be much longer."

Guzma, like Faba, evidently felt the connotation of being in her bedroom; he slunk in, keeping close to the walls, and looked quickly for a place to seat himself in a neutral fashion. The bedroom, like all the other rooms, had a breathless, intimate feel, flush with light and golden colors. It made a person feel that they ought to be walking on their toes.

Guzma did find a chair and sat in it―gently.

Lusamine began to fasten her earrings and looked up at him. "And how is everything since we last met?"

"The same."

"Did you confide in your friend yet? Her name―"

"Plumeria. And, uh, no. Not yet." He slouched in the chair. "I'm… waiting for the right time, you know?"

"You think she won't understand."

"What? Nah, she'll―! She'll get it."

"And Gladion?"

"He doesn't know nothin'."

She eyed him. There were some things she didn't tolerate.

"― _Anything_. I kept the mission to a small group, just like you said. But we haven't found nuh― _anything_."

"Good. Keep it just like that. Don't feel the need to rush things along―that's when mistakes are made."

"Yes, ma'am."

At last, she was satisfied with her appearance; she gave herself one look over, twisting her face side-to-side in the mirror, then sat back, looking pleased. "Well! Since we have some time today, I thought we might have a talk." She lifted herself from the chair, before he even had a chance to offer to unseat her; on cue, he stood up as well. She revelled in his momentary confusion, then patted the now empty chair. "Mr. Guzma, please, come sit."

He looked at the chair, then her, then at the chair again.

"It's all right. I won't bite."

"I know," he said hurriedly, "but, uh...You're not gonna give me a makeover or something, are you?"

She laughed. "Now, now, you'll see."

Guzma might have objected more, but curiosity got the best of him, as did the temptation of the open offer to sit so close to her. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, lifted his shoulders, and sat before her.

She pressed against the back of the chair and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Sit up straight, won't you?"

(He did.)

"Now." She softly brought her fingers to his face, touching his cheek and jaw only enough to communicate intimacy and send a shiver down his spine. She positioned his face to directly gaze into the mirror's reflection. "Look."

His eyes at first swivelled up at her uncertainly, but he eventually obeyed.

Quite a picture they were together, her fragile luminescence and perfection hovering over him, this hard and ragged man with sharp eyes and starving face. Starlight, she thinks, raking its glow over barren land.

"What do you see, Mr. Guzma?"

"Uh, I see…" He couldn't find in her expression what response she wanted, and neither did he get this gimmick. "Me? And you, too."

"Yes, of course. But what _else_ do you see?"

"...The room?" He looked up at her, a puppy-dog plea for approval.

So the boy lacked imagination. She couldn't fault him for that. She laughed gently and circled her arms about his neck and shoulders. (She could feel his temperature rise as she pressed her chin to his temple). "Do you know what I see?"

His eyes widened, and his breath held. He watched her from the reflection.

"I see a young man with a coarse and rough exterior just waiting to break open and reveal something immaculate."

By the way his eyebrows scrunched, she could tell he didn't know what to make of that.

"Do you see anything now, Mr. Guzma?"

After a moment of introspection, Guzma felt he understood; he split his lips in a toothy, roguish grin. "Yeah. I see the best kahuna in Alola."

She smiled.

* * *

 _And_ _the mirror._

 _It smiled back at her._

 _Her little prince… Bold… Brave… So grown for his age…_

 _Her little princess… Joyful… Loving… Compassionate…_

 _And her king…_

All, all fell through her fingers like sand.

* * *

"...Miss L?"

She snapped back and saw Guzma squirming uncomfortably under her grip. Her fingers had tightened into the cloth of his shirt. He looked more worried than frightened, though.

"Are you okay?"

"Ah…" She released him slowly and rubbed the tips of her fingers into her forehead. She smiled weakly to reassure him. "I'm sorry, it seems I was lost in thought."

He had his eyes on her, watching her.

Lusamine sighed deeply, like a pain had been lifted, and to his alarm, began to fidget with his hair. "Hmm. It really does have a mind of its own, doesn't it?" She gave it an invasive pull, running her nails along his scalp and making him twitch.

"AH, hey, you think the lab's ready for us―?" He started to work his hands over his head to ward her off.

She shooed them away with her fingers. "Tut-tut! They'll be sure to call us. Now let's see what I can do… Here, take these out of the way," she said, lifting his glasses from his forehead.

"Whaddaya doin'? I said no makeover! This was a dirty trap, wasn't it!"

She picked up a fine comb and shushed him. "I'm just going to fix your hair, you silly thing. Put your hands down and sit still."

He wheezed overdramatically, hot with anger. He might be easily manipulated, but he was _not_ easily contradicted. However, with time, thoughts bounced around in his head, easing the puffing in his chest. She had seemed so sad, just a moment ago… A far-off look that he recognized, a paralysis that succumbs someone with no one to turn to. A mother like this has probably sat here countless times, fixing the hair of her children, perhaps even her husband. So perhaps now, she mothered others to stave off this crushing loneliness―and who was Guzma, after all that she promised him, to deny her the smallest bit of relief? He swallowed a grumble and assented.

But― " _Ow_."―he quickly realized he was not just sacrificing his dignity, but his comfort as well. Knots in his hair popped and follicles snapped under her aggressive hand; he hissed and gave the table a punishing kick. "Ow! Geez, lady!" (Pain, it seemed, threw his politeness hurtling out the window). "You're ripping it right outta me!"

"If you combed it through regularly," she scolded, "it wouldn't hurt nearly so much. Honestly, I think we ought to go over some basic personal hygiene."

"Ugh! Please, _don't_."

Mercifully, the knots worked themselves out in due time. After a few more minutes of yelping and complaining, the pain gradually eased, replaced with the soft, blissfully smooth sensations of bristle and delicate fingers weaving through his scalp.

 _Okay… 'snot so bad…_ It was even a little soothing to his nerves. Not that he would ever admit it. He slumped a bit in his seat and sniffed dryly.

Lusamine noticed. Not that she would ever _tell him_ that. But she did take note.

Lusamine had a file on him by now―pages thick, much of it hand-written. The background file she had originally compiled served as her guidebook for topics to bring up frankly, subtly work into conversation, or avoid completely. Every following meeting with him proved eminently fruitful: giving him the slightest positive attention _melted_ him. She had never met a young man so eager to natter on about himself.

Today, she had decided to broach the one subject she thought she would keep quiet. She continued to brush his hair, albeit slower than before, "Mr. Guzma, where do your parents live?"

She could see him tense. "What?"

"Are they local? You told me you grew up in the area."

"Well―they―" His jaw slackened from thought. He didn't know how this had become the topic of conversation. "Still live in the same house, but…"

"Oh, on Mele'mele? How pleasant." As she saw his expression tighten, she continued to speak carelessly. "Let's see… Mele'mele… Isn't that where the professor lives? I do believe I've had him and his wife over at least once―she's a physics professor, isn't she? What a lovely couple."

Guzma's voice descended noticeably and he averted his eyes. "Yeah, they're… Great."

There it was. Another reservation. Having found it, she decided not to prod it any further. Besides, she had a more pressing interest. "Since your parents live so close, you must be able to visit often. How convenient."

"Uh, yeah―sure― _why_ are you asking about my parents?"

"Oh," she said, waving a hand, "just small talk. What are they like? What do they do for a living?"

"I dunno. They're normal, I guess." He fidgeted with his foot against one of the vanity table's legs. That apparently was all he was willing to divulge on the matter.

She would have liked to continue, dipping her toes into the flood of things he would only ever say by omission.

But the telecom rang, and Faba―no doubt taking some pleasure in inconveniencing her―made sure to let her know that they really could wait no longer. So she put a pin in the conversation, summoned Guzma along (not commenting on the fact that he immediately ruffled his hair with his hands, as if to say _I'm not yours―yet_ ), and for a nasty moment, fantasized about pressing a _literal_ pin into Faba's pronounced, clammy forehead.


	4. Legacy

**Chapter 4: Legacy**

Guzma surveyed his kingdom.

Po Town, it could not be denied, had certain aesthetic value. The bones of the town, under the rot of untreated roofs and layers of splashed paint, had signs of the class of people that used to live here. High walls, high hedges, high gates: all to keep the riff-raff out. It was the reason he had targeted the town in the first place. Not only did it host some of the richest people in all the islands, but it stood as a symbol of safety and order. To knock it down and spit on it―that was truly a black eye in the kahunas' and captains' faces.

But even the outward shell of the town―the exoskeleton, the carapace that hung over what the town used to be―had value for the right person, under the right circumstances. You had to be the sort who liked the gloomy sag of crushed dreams, the nihilism and anger inherent in smearing paint and breaking glass. It also helped to be drunk, hungry, and at odds with your uptight parents. If you have ever been alone or took a beating or felt fear, Po Town felt like poetry, just being there. There was fun in Po Town. And there was also sadness, and fist-fights, and sleep that went on too long because there was really nothing to _do_ in Po Town.

After two years of living here, Guzma was only now starting to see it, he thought, for what is was. He finally had something to _compare_ it to. The energy he felt buzzing at Aether Paradise, its illumination, its ruthless structure and efficiency, its _depth_ ―to spend hours there, interacting with such people, and then to be dumped off at the Po Town front gate―every time, it felt like being kicked into the mud face-first. It had an initial shock, a humiliation, and a grueling sliminess that stuck to him for hours. He would walk past two drooling idiots manning the gate, weave about the cars that had been smashed and since reduced to shelters, glance outward in search of the light from the mansion (the only building they could afford to keep powered), marvel at the new pile of garbage that started in the center of town square, and arrive at the main house, his body drenched in sopping rain.

And he stood there in the doorway, dripping and carrying a black cloud with him like an adornment.

He heard the occasional grunt call after him, but he didn't answer.

"Guz-ma!"

"Hey, Big G!"

"Yo, Boss! Yo, G!"

―What was that smell?

He had never noticed smells before. He never noticed how the whole house faintly reeked of beer and urine, rotten things and neglected things. In fact, it was one of the first things he realized after his first meeting with Lusamine―sitting in the tea room, nothing but the sea and flowers to breathe in, and her perfume too, like a garden blooming in June. But another smell hit him by contrast, and he realized it was _him._ He _stank_. When was the last time he bathed? When was the last time he changed out of these clothes, or washed them for that matter? He could think of no other experience that mortified him more, than sitting there with this perfect nymph and realizing he smelled like a ripe hobo.

...He had stepped in something on his way up the stairs―something wet and unpleasant. He kicked it and scraped it from his shoe and cursed harshly―was it so much to ask? Just to pick after yourself? Just to not _completely trash the house he lived in_?

He took a left, past the chandelier that a grunt had knocked down earlier this month. At least he got to pound the kid. Most of the time he can't figure out who's doing _what_ around here.

Kept going… Past Plumeria's room, past some sleeping quarters where he could hear thumping music and hysterical giggling...

He must have spaced out for a moment, because a grunt took him by surprise by snatching his wrist and shouting with excitement. "Woah, that watch is _swag_ , G! Where'd you get it?"

Guzma allowed the grunt to hold his wrist for a few more seconds, as the attention pleased him. He twisted the gold watch under the faint light, showing off its brilliant glisten. "Oh, that? Snatched it off some old tourist."

"You gonna pawn it?"

Guzma flinched and yanked his hand away, like the grunt had said something offensive. "No way!"

"You right, you right. Looks baller on you."

* * *

When he shut the door and collapsed onto his bed, one of the legs collapsed. _Again_. He had to get up and fix the cinder block currently propping it up.

Then finally, finally, he was able to sprawl out, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate.

His room had not changed since he left that afternoon, but like everything else, his view of it changed. He sucked his teeth at it―its stacks of dirty laundry and food he didn't remember eating and spray-paint he didn't remember spraying. Eventually he turned his head at the sound of water dripping from the wall.

"Oh, hey it's a new leak." He stared at it and muttered under his breath. "At least the others got company now, huh."

His joke failed to cheer him up.

 _Maybe this will_. He brought his wrist up to his face, sticking it into his brand new watch. He unfastened it and held it up against the light. The shine hurt his eyes. He looked, for the hundredth time, at the engraving on the back of its face.

 _To Future Success_.

His heart skipped a beat.

He hadn't even taken out the check currently burning in his pocket. Lusamine casually handed it over, saying it was 'a little something,' and he felt faint when he saw the number.

Twelve days, he told himself. It would be twelve days before they met again. She had to space out their meetings―he understood that―but it felt like a _sentence,_ and Po Town was his _prison_.

 _Drip, drip_. He thought he was hearing the leak at first. He turned his head.

Golisopod was sitting right across the room, staring and drooling at him.

He shot up and jeered. "Hey―buddy!"

It bolted for him.

"Get your ugly mug over here!" When it reached him, he laughed, latched it into a headlock, and noogied its head. If Plumeria was its babying mother, Guzma was its roughhousing father. "You miss your boy? Huh?"

Golisopod whinnied and butted into him, eager to start their ritual.

The pokemon had quickly learned that whenever Guzma left for the evening, he would return with food stuffed down his pockets and an incredible need to talk. With no one to confide the details of recent developments, Guzma had resorted to venting with Golisopod; he doubted it understood much of anything he said, but it made him feel better, and Golisopod loved being lavished with attention.

He stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket. "You wanna know what your boy got you?"

Golisopod could hardly contain its excitement; when he brought out the pastries, it almost tackled him.

"Hey, easy! Here, here." He held out the three small, floury lumps. "They're 'scones.'"

Golisopod chirped at him.

"Yeah, I never heard of 'em either. They're all right, though."

Satisfied with his explanation, it promptly shoveled them into its mouth, briefly coughing on the crumbs.

"Look what else I got―she called it a, a, 'commemorative' gift," he said, pointing to what he swore was a solid-gold timepiece. When she first said the word to him, he latched onto it, its syllables, the way it sounded over her lips―and he repeated it to himself over and over, as to not forget it. _Commemorative. Commemorative._ He waved the watch in Golisopod's face. "Check it out!"

Golisopod, evidently impressed by its color, starting searching it with its mouth.

"No! Hey!" He smacked it. "Don't eat it, dummy! It's important!"

Dejected but not hurt, it planted its face on his lap, drool pooling on his pant legs.

"What a night. They got some crazy stuff in that joint," he said. He thought on the lab, the equipment he didn't have names for, the monitors and scientists. Much he didn't understand, but Lusamine explained some of it, and Faba did, too. Guzma tilted his head, hearing a question Golisopod had no way of asking. "I think it went a'ight. Don't get me wrong. Miss L can kinda, uh, get annoying sometimes. Like tonight. She kept―" He remembered something that had, in particular, hit a nerve in him. He huffed. "Ooh, Kukui," he mocked in a feminine, falsetto voice, "he's so wonderful, isn't he, and his wife is just lovely, and everything's _lovely_ ―" He growled. "Ugh! He can _bite_ me."

Golisopod stared at him. He read its expression―or perhaps projected.

"I'm not jealous," he countered. "What's there to be jealous about? He's such a loser! Never completed the trials! I was there! I saw him chicken out! And, 'lovely wife'? Please! I can't believe he married that―! Like, are you serious? The dorkiest chick in school―I was in classes with her―she was that brain trust kid who'd remind the teacher to give us homework. And―this one time, I told that jerkoff Kawika―you remember him, right―that I was gonna cut his dumb face if he kept touching my stuff, and she _snitched_ on me, it wasn't even her _business_ , I got sent home and _everything_!"

(He leaves out the other details―that the teacher searched him and found a small pocketknife―that she announced, out loud for everyone to hear, 'wait until I tell your father about this'―that he cried and begged her not to, in front of the whole fifth grade class, pretty much demolishing his rep in one fell swoop.)

"'Sides, why should I be jealous? I got a house, I can do whatever I want, I got the crew, I could get any girl I wanted, so―and I got the best partner, right?"

At that, Golisopod roared its approval.

* * *

Guzma, still feeling off, decided to do the one thing he knew would lift his spirits.

"I don't wanna hear excuses!"

From his throne―his favorite place in Po Town―he grabbed and hurled an empty beer bottle at the hapless grunt's head. The grunt just narrowly dodged its trajectory by throwing himself onto the floor, and after cringing at the sound of its smashing on the wall, he remained there on his hands and knees. "P-please, Boss! We looked everywhere, just like you said!"

"It's almost been a month! And what have you got for me, huh? Zip! Nothin'!"

The other three grunts, who had been standing and shaking up until this moment, decided to follow their comrade's pose and fall to their knees. "Boss, it ain't our fault, see? The cops are up in our grill more than usual―"

"Screw the cops! Whatta you, spineless?" He pounded the arms of his chair, producing a sound that sent them cowering. "One pokemon! That's all I want! Is that so hard? The thing's a _ball of energy_ , it's gotta stick out like a sore thumb!"

"Boss, maybe if we had, y'know, more crew on it―"

"Are you telling me," Guzma growled, "that you're incompetent? Is that it?"

It took a few hard seconds before one of them had the courage to speak again. "G, why ain't Gladion on this? He covers lotsa ground, don't he?"

Guzma glared daggers into him. "How many ways I gotta say it, numbskull? _Secret operation!_ 'Secret' means we don't _include_ nobody else."

"But you always say―"

He knew what the grunt was going to say. _You always say Gladion's the best fighter we have._ They weren't wrong to bring up contradiction. But Lusamine had impressed great warnings on him. If Gladion found out about this search, it would play their hand. It might even destroy everything they were working towards. He grit his teeth and stood to his feet, speaking darkly. "Ya'll ain't gettin' it, are you?"

They froze. Him removing himself from his chair did not bode well.

"This mission… I picked you because I thought I could count on you. Are you gonna make a fool outta Guzma? Huh? You gonna make Big, Bad Guzma a joke?"

He stepped down the small set of stairs, eventually looming over each of them with a sour, vindictive look.

"Don't bring me no more excuses. This could make or break Team Skull. Or it could make me… break _you_. Got it?" He surveyed their expressions but wasn't satisfied. So Guzma grabbed the nearest grunt by the front of his shirt, pulled the kid upward, and twisted the hard tip of his knuckle painfully into the kid's temple. The grunt whimpered under his grip―it felt brilliant. "Get. It. Through. Your. Head."

"Yeah, Boss! Okay, Boss!"

* * *

Plumeria, seated against the wall and atop her bed, had been typing on her laptop all that evening as she heard the screaming and breaking glass going on across the hall.

 _The emperor is raging again._

On other days, she might have eventually gotten up to see what the fuss was about, maybe even intervene before somebody got a concussion. But the bed was comfortable today, and she felt she needed the order and peace of her neatly-preserved bedroom more than she needed to tear Guzma's hands from some grunt's neck.

So she ignored it.

Several minutes later, however, it seemed Guzma meant to entangle her anyway; after the pitter-patter of terrified grunt feet passed by, his recognizably hefty clomping approached her door.

 _Please don't,_ she internally pleaded, but it was no use. Guzma had decided to come by.

He opened the door―didn't knock―and poked his head in. "'Sup, Plume?" He kicked off his muddy shoes before entering. There were rules even he obeyed in her realm.

"Hey." She looked up from her laptop momentarily, but when he didn't elaborate on his greeting, she asked, "Do you _want_ something?"

"Pffsh. I dunno." He gave her a purposefully stupid look. "You wanna make out?"

Plumeria chucked her Lapras plushie at him―hard―and struck him square in the gut. (He grunted and keeled over dramatically, feigning injury.) "Shut _up_ ," she barked, though she was smiling. She watched his little performance for a second―shook her head admonishingly―and dropped her smile. "Guz, seriously though, I'm kinda busy."

"Doing _what_? I just wanna hang." He stooped down to pick up the projectile, stuffing it under his arm and strolling over to her bed. He fell onto the bed, sprawling obnoxiously in her personal space, and planted the Lapras on his chest. "You ain't got time for me?" He tried to peek at her computer screen. "You writing?"

She pulled it away from him. "You mind? It's private."

"Tch." He laid back to stare at the ceiling, then started examining the plushie she had struck him with, tilting it side to side with his hands.

She smirked to herself. For all the blustering, screaming, and threatening he did, he could be such a dork.

"'Dear diary,'" he said, suddenly puppeteering the Lapras with a light, girly accent, "'I started my period today, and―'" _Thump_. "Ow!" He clutched his chest where she had pounded him with her fist. The pain made him snort with laughter and roll onto his side.

"You―ugh!" She punched him in the back, too, eliciting more winded, pained snickering. "I'm about to kick your rear outta here―"

"Ow! Okay! I'm sorry!" He shielded himself and returned to his position on his back. "Look! Plume! I need to talk to you." He saw her cold expression and upped the whine in his voice. " _Please_?"

She intended to say no. But she then noticed the watch, and remembered that he had been gone half the day, and it all began to fit together in her brain.

She had of course noticed these frequent outings, but ever since they amicably broke up _a million years ago_ , they had agreed to stay friends _and_ stay out of each other's personal business―as much as could be expected when living under the same roof. Plumeria had historically been very good at following this rule, even when Guzma screwed it up by not following it himself. So she hadn't asked or bothered him about his outings.

And now he cracked open a door for her.

She sighed, shut her laptop, and gave in. "About what?"

"Do you ever…" Guzma frowned and kicked against the headboard. "Y'know, wonder where you're gonna be in ten years?"

"No," she answered easily. "But my _dad_ once asked me that when he caught me with a cigarette."

He caught the cynicism in her voice, and it infuriated him. "I'm being serious!"

Plumeria gave him a suddenly critical, judgmental look, at first triggered by his behavior, but now triggered by something she noticed. She had to do a double-take. "Guz, did you do something with your hair?"

"What?" He clasped a hand over it self-consciously. "No."

"...Would it have anything to do with why you _preened_ for like an hour before you left?"

"Hey! None of your―"

"Business, right."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Do you, like, see yourself _here_ by then? In this house?"

He was so ridiculously earnest. She snorted at him. "I dunno, Guz, I don't think about _next month_ that way."

"Well―" This conversation obviously had not gone the direction he intended. He fumed. "I don't! See myself here, I mean!"

"Okay?" She shrugged. "Whatever."

"Don't you hate this place sometimes?"

Plumeria popped her gum and shrugged. "It could be worse."

"There's nothing _here,_ Plume! Even the street kids know that now! This whole place is a dump." He folded his arms hard against his chest, muttering bitterly, "No wonder people are leaving."

Plumeria just about gasped. "Oh my god...This is about Katya, isn't it?" She didn't know why she hadn't made the connection before. It _had_ been several months since Katya left. Plumeria still felt an internal wince when she thought about it. The whole thing had been so _stupid._ Katya―seventeen, dark-skinned, drop-dead gorgeous. Guzma couldn't help himself. The girl never expressed any interest in him, often casually inserting references to 'her boyfriend' who lived in Malie City to ward him off, but he persisted in embarrassing himself, though never mustering the guts to make a real move on her. He just hovered around her, acting pathetic. Mercifully, Katya stayed only a few weeks before announcing Team Skull was "boring," taking all her stuff, and moving to Malie to move in with her boyfriend and work as a waitress.

Guzma pouted for _weeks_.

"Guz. _Everyone_ knew you had a dumb little crush on her―"

"What! It's―" He flushed and pulled his sunglasses over his face. "It's so not about that! God, that was forever ago!"

Plumeria wasn't sure she believed him.

He thought he would be able to explain it better. Of all the grunts, so few of them were older than fourteen―and so many of the older ones would reach sixteen, maybe seventeen, before yawning, looking around themselves, and deciding they had better use of their time. All of the Old Guard―the kids they formed Team Skull around years ago―had cycled out, each finding their own excuses for abandoning the cause.

" _Look, Big G, my girl's knocked up, and―_ "

" _My old man says he can get me a job―_ "

" _My gramps is letting me move in―_ "

" _Just need a change in scenery, yo, no hard feelings, G―_ "

Now their gang was formed around a pack of fresh meat―babies―who feared him but lacked the bond of friendship he remembered having with the previous generation. He didn't think it manly to admit, but there were nights when he choked with pain, missing the crew he had thought would be his brothers and sisters for life.

Time moved forward, trampling him underfoot.

And now, he was beginning to think he felt it, too. The looming―the annoying throb that had started at his coming of age, slowly leeching the joy from things he once found enjoyable, hilarious, or exciting. More and more, the motifs and activities around him felt painfully _boring_ to him. He began to think about things he didn't want to think about: life and death, and meaning, and purpose, and _legacy_. Things that would, in the adult world, translate to inanities such as mortgages, careers, marriage, and children.

He had thought he would live in the daze of adolescence forever. But now, his vision cleared, and he saw things that the others didn't―future possibilities, impending crises…

It bothered him, like an unreachable itch.

(He thinks suddenly of Lusamine, her nails gently sprawling through his scalp, giving him chills… Promises whispered in his ear...)

"Plume. I gotta tell you something."

She was listening.

"... It's just, you can't freak, okay? Because I've been thinking, about the future, you know? And, hey, it's not like we're rolling in the money, either―"

Plumeria couldn't tell what he was getting at. "If you're so worried about money, just charge Nanu higher rent."

"That's your plan?! Squeeze one geezer for his pension!?" He sat up and slammed his fist down. "It doesn't even _close_ to solving anything!"

"...And you've…" Plumeria looked one more time at the gold watch. "What, got a way to solve it?"

For a time, Guzma went quiet. It looked almost as if he was ready to chicken out of something, but was going to force himself into it anyway. He folded his legs under him, leaned conspiratorially close, and spoke. "You can't say nothin' to nobody." He glared at her. "You have to promise."

"Guz…"

"I'm dead serious. Anybody finds out―we'd be screwed."

She thought about her promise to Nanu. "Okay."

"You know the President of Aether?"

"At Aether?" That organization―they didn't call it by name often, usually just using pejoratives like 'those white-hats' or worse. "I guess I've heard about her."

"Yeah, well…" He started fidgeting with his watch. "I'm sort of, working with her."

Her eyes went wide and her mouth shut tight. She felt like the floor had fallen out under her―like the world had started spinning and wouldn't stop. A gasp left her when she finally spoke. " _Working_ with her!"

"Shh! God! Not so loud!"

"Are you crazy?" she hissed, giving him the courtesy of lowering her voice. "That is the single most― what, like her errand boy or something? For some corporate witch?"

"That's what I thought at first, too, but―she's actually really nice, okay? She's not like other people―not like _anyone_."

She saw a glow of genuine admiration in him. She was hearing shades of Katya, but she dared not suggest it.

"She believes in me, Plume. She thinks I can help her―that I can _be_ somebody."

"...You're ditching us for some stuffy rich lady?"

"I'm not ditching anybody!" He bunched up his coat. "Look―" He dug out the check and waved it in her face. "She gave this to me tonight! Called it 'a little something'! Just think about―think about what we could do with this, with the cash that's still comin'―"

She took the check, looked at it, but couldn't find words.

"This lady―I know it's crazy―but she could give us everything we've ever wanted―-and she _wants_ to, she wants to help us―she wants to meet you, too. I promise, once you talk to her, you'll get it, you'll see what I mean."

* * *

What could she say?

He transformed in front of her; he vibrated with an energy and excitement normally foreign to him. When had she ever seen him this passionate, this enthusiastic? To knock him down now―when, admittedly, she didn't have all the information, and hadn't even given it a chance―felt senselessly cruel.

Guzma saw the uncertainty in her eyes and jumped for it. He reached over and took hold of her hands.

"Plumeria. I know―! I know I've been a real screw-up lately, but you gotta trust me on this."

...She thought about Nanu again, about his suspicions. She realized she would have to keep secrets from him now, would have to lie to him…

But it all seemed too good, too promising.

Guzma dropped her hands. He felt her acquiescence somehow. "Besides, she wants us to steal something back, from a thief. I figure that makes us the good guys this time, right?"

"...The good guys," she repeated, marvelling at his saying it.

* * *

It wouldn't be long, now. Plumeria would visit the Foundation, too, alongside Guzma; she would see the halls and windows that sang sweetly to him. She would shake hands with that woman, and sit for tea. Lusamine would notice traits in Plumeria that Guzma had always missed―her gentle poise when seated, her ease in using multiple forks, her comfort in sweeping mansion landscapes.

Plumeria would not be seduced. She knew all too well the lies that could be built into beautiful rooms and carefully crafted smiles. She had run from those lies before.

But the lies tasted sweet, didn't they? Sweet like success, sweet like an ungotten Katya, sweet like the pure music of a spoon against crystal.

(Again, again, Guzma didn't stand a chance.)


	5. Divergence

**#5: Divergence**

Dark.

Cold.

Alone.

Afraid.

* * *

The air, thick and oppressive… The sounds emanating like the frightened screams of tortured animals… His skin covered in residue, some thick, slimy fluid that wouldn't come off, no matter how he dug his nails into it… It burned his skin and made his eyes water…

A rash had broken out all over his arms…

Finally, he stooped over and vomited. The vomit was black and oily, and stuck to his teeth, delivering a sour and nasty taste.

* * *

Guzma's heart hadn't stopped pounding.

This place…

He crawled forward on his stomach to the opening of his hiding place, a small crevice in the wall he found after blindly running for his life through the tunnels. He looked up. This dimension―Ultra Space―looked nothing like he had expected. It had a dreamlike quality to it, decidedly nightmarish: strange rock formations that seemed to grow from the ground and tangle into the ceiling; strange colors shining from unnatural places; impossible sources of light; some sort of dusty mist swirling around and choking the air. The stones that lined the floor, walls and ceiling of this immense cave structure that were black, deep black, seeming to absorb all light that it touched. He could hardly see ten feet in front of him.

And the monsters…

His encounter with that jellyfish-thing was enough to convince him to hide and not come out.

Guzma hissed in pain, again clutching the rash on his arms. The pain got to be so bad, he sat up, pinned his arms between his thighs, and pressed as hard as he could. He groaned, cursed, gasped, and rocked himself.

He had tried for hours to find Lusamine. In their jump to the new dimension, they had somehow separated; perhaps the portal spit them out in different places. He had no way of knowing if this difference would be in yards, miles, or light years. She might be on a different _planet_ , for all he knew.

Lusamine was the one with the beast balls―tucked away in her expensive white and gold handbag slung over her shoulder. She had dismissed his request to carry some of his own. Just the first sign of bad things to come.

So he came to learn the first hard lesson of Ultra Space: never wrangle a beast with your bare hands, no matter how much you want to subdue it.

* * *

In the dark, a woman walked alone, teetering uncertainly, as if drunk.

She tilted her head suddenly.

"Mohn?"

Her voice was faint, choked by the thick mist.

"Mohn, can you hear me? I can feel you. Darling, love, whisper to me." She twirled slowly, like a ballerina, and slid down to her knees. She closed her eyes and encircled her body with her arms, embracing herself tightly. Her sighs roll from her breast with a passionate, carnal tone. "It has been so long… since I've felt your touch… If you knew… how alone I've been…" Finally, she opened her eyes and gazed upon the world.

...What did Lusamine see? She did not see the strangeness of this place, or its sharp shadows and teeth. In her eyes, this world brushed up against her skin like black satin, and it shone like diamonds. She felt, from the moment she awoke in this place, as if she could bury herself in it, love it. Indeed, that was what she intended all along―wasn't it? Find the beasts and love them to death… Again and again… As many times as it took, to find what she had lost.

She did not realize that her murmurs would carry and rouse a slumbering creature in a nearby cave. It rolled, grunted, clawed at the soft dirt as it heaved itself upward.

Footsteps approached her―crunches in the rubble. Then the creature spotted her and shouted aloud.

* * *

"Miss L? MISS L!" Guzma tripped over himself in his scramble to reach her. "Geez! I thought you were done in or somethin'! I―I've been looking for you for forever! Are you all right?!"

She breathed out, annoyed, and shushed him.

Confused, he looked her over. She continued to sit hunched over on the ground. "Uh, what are you doing?"

Lusamine, apparently realizing he was going to continue interrupting her, pushed herself to her feet and began brushing herself off. Guzma tried to help her, but she batted his hands away.

"So… You… Ain't been hurt, or nothin'? Have you caught any beasts?"

She lifted her head, looked at him with an eerily vacant expression, and shook her head. "Who are you? You're not my husband."

Guzma felt himself fly into a panic. "Ma'am?" He took her by the shoulders and tried to give her a light shake. "Please, listen! It's Guzma, remember? I don't know what the heck's goin' on, but―"

"...Do you…" Her eyes darkened and she leaned close to him, until her lips breathed warm air on his. "Want to be my husband?"

"H-hey! Geez!" He pushed her back and had maneuver one of her hands away from a particularly innapropriate region of his body. "Uh-h, look, lady, I think there's something in the air, or the jump crossed some o' your wires, or somethin'..."

"Nonsense. I have never felt better." She turned around, swaying her head dreamily. "There is so much beauty here. Don't you agree? Oh, I could live here forever!"

"Ma'am, listen, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, but, uh―I've been thinkin'―how we supposed to get back, exactly?"

She cackled, fell into him, and pinched his cheek. "Oh, you darling, silly boy! Why would we do that?"

...This did _not_ bode well. He felt his legs shake under him. "But we―gotta get back, you promised, you promised I'd be a kahuna―"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now, leave me alone." She broke away, sat primly on a nearby rock, crossed her legs, and refused to go any further. "I wish to stay here… With my precious beasts… Nihilego…" Her eyes trailed upward toward the ceiling. "They're here… They're singing to me…"

Guzma froze. He strained his hearing, but couldn't hear any sign of them. It was then, though, that he saw the markings on her arm. He stumbled forward desperately, taking hold of her nimble limb. The red blotches―suddenly, everything made sense. "M-miss―oh god, they got to you, didn't they?"

"Such power… and beauty…" She swooned. "All they want to do is share it with us, darling. Their love..."

"It's poison, Miss! They got you messed up in the head!"

She pulled away her arm and chided him. "Oh, whatever do you mean? I told you to go away. I don't need you."

"Lady!" He stomped his foot down to show his impatience. "I don't care if you have gone nuts! We ain't staying here, and you gonna listen to reason, whether you like it or not!"

Lusamine tossed her head at him, at first to show her disapproval of his rude talk, but she saw his rash and gasped a loud, pleased gasp. She rose to her feet and practically floated over to him. "Young man…" Her eyes, dark and wet, searched him greedily. "Tell me… What glories did they show you…? What sweet things did you taste…?"

She reached out, smoothed her fingers over the wounds… He found himself too paralyzed with terror to move.

"Oh―do you hear it? Guzma." The fact that she suddenly remembered his name didn't comfort him. Her voice turned almost robotic, humming with a tight vibration. The screech of the creatures began again, echoing along the cave's walls. "They're coming back. They want you to stay. Won't you? _Guzma_."

She tightened her grip… And he cringed, threw her off, and ran as fast away as he could. "G-get away from me! You're crazy! You're―!"

* * *

He runs, runs.

He tries not to think about it, but the memory is so fresh and vivid. It springs to life, and he lives through it again as he runs desperately through the dark.

The sting of its tentacles latching into his arm, the voice that erupted in his head like a drill through his skull. It pulls on him; he fights and it digs in harder.

 _Guzma, Guzma,_

 _Share with us,_

 _Show us,_

 _We see anger, anger, anger in you_

 _Let us share the anger together_

He felt his hands moving on their own, his thoughts thinking on their own. Visions unfurled before him of people he knew, despised, and hated-

 _Together,_ the Nihilego said, _crush them, destroy them, make them_ ** _pay_**.

He watched himself do things to them. Horrible, unspeakable, incomprehensible things. He tried to scream out in terror, but his voice laughed instead, a high-pitched, cruel laugh. He tried to stop, but his hands only tore into them with more ferocity.

 _Yes, we see what you want, kill, kill, kill,_

Until finally, he had a vision of himself, and his hands enclosed around his own throat, and he watched the life leave his eyes.

* * *

So, here he was. Back to where he started; back to crouching in a hole, miserable, terrified, and trying to stay small and invisible.

He spent much of the next few hours rocking on his feet and feeling sorry for himself. He had no way home. Lusamine was far gone. Monsters were everywhere, roaming with their eager mouths for prey.

"I'm gonna die here," he eventually snivelled. He hadn't heard any monsters pass by for what felt like decades, and the silence was starting to drive him crazy, so he talked to himself. "Super job, Guzma. Way to go. Listened to some crazy lady, and now you get to die in some hole―" His stomach growled and he thrusted his arm against it. "Ugh, I'm starving―" More urgently, his voice started to crack from thirst. He'd been walking and running for hours. If he knew this was going to be a one-way trip, he might have packed a water bottle or _something_.

He swallowed hard, trying to moisten his dry throat.

A thought occurred to him. "I wonder if anybody's gonna come for us." This gave him a tiny spark of hope. "Yeah, her kids―maybe Gladion'll―" He shook his head. "Not Gladion. Kid has reason to let us rot." Not that he'd ever admit it, but he was starting to feel guilty for pulling the wool over him. The poor kid probably went through a lot, ran to Team Skull to escape it all, and now Guzma had thrown him back into this mess. "Lillie might." Guzma knew her only from a distance, but she struck him as pure and innocent enough to try and save people who didn't deserve it.

He shivered from cold. Despite his momentary optimism, no matter how much he wracked his brain, he couldn't think of how they would get here. Opening the wormhole had taken months of preparation.

For that matter, who would be _stupid_ enough to come here on purpose?

* * *

Lillie was different than he remembered. The last time he saw much of her, she wore that frilly white dress and hat, and a desperate look on her face. She had changed clothes, something a little more sporty, and tied up her hair, but she still had that diminutive, frantic feel to her: like a mouse caught by the tail.

He told her: your mother's far gone.

And she said, stiff with determination: I don't care.

Was this little girl going to out-courage him? Her and that snot-nosed Kanto trainer―were they going to show him up this quickly? While he had cowered in the dark, waiting for death to come in one form or another, they immediately stormed forward into the tunnel to find and extract Lusamine. He started to follow them, but trailed behind in such a way that he could excuse himself. He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired, wasn't he? Hearing the screeching chorus of Nihilego was the last straw for him: he sat himself on a ledge and watched them go.

In the end, he saw but couldn't hear much of the argument that went on between mother and daughter. He caught the gist, or so he thought: Lusamine didn't want rescuing, preferring the nasty glamour of this world; Lillie accused her of using people and pokemon to her own ends.

He thought he heard Lillie say his name, followed by pensive silence.

 _Please, please wrap this up_. He wanted Lillie to give up already. To let the crazy woman lavish her love on monsters for eternity, and bring _him_ home.

But he couldn't drop his meandering thoughts: his intense memory of the Nihilego's touch, Lusamine's faraway look when he spoke to her, the moans that roused him from his nightmare-fueled sleep― _Mohn, where are you, Mohn, can you hear me?_ All of this wrapped up into a tight, throbbing lump in his throat―all the pity that drove him to help her in the first place. She was sick, that was all. She was lonely and hurt, and he felt that he was the only person in the universe who truly understood that.

He stood up, suddenly. A desire consumed him― a desire to explain this to them somehow, to try and man-up and fix what he had no doubt enabled by letting Lusamine boss him around. _All along, I should have been more assertive, right? If I just told her how I felt, we could have avoided this―_

But his delusion was short-lived. He stepped into the chamber where the argument had quelled for the moment, and witnessed Lusamine release a Nihilego she had captured. He froze. The terror washed over him again. He gripped the wall and watched helplessly.

Lusamine gazed upon the beast, reached out her arms, and let it slip its arms into hers like the sleeves of a fine silk dress.

She was merging with it.

They weren't going to intervene.

How could they? They were little kids―and that beast―

Was it courage or cowardice?

Insanity, or clarity?

Fight, or flight?

Whatever it was, the decision he made in that split second sent him crashing forward.

He felt and heard a series of rapid-fire sensations: the impact of his body against Lusamine, the gelatinous snap of the creature's tentacles as their grip broke, the shredding of his palms when he skidded across the rocky floor, Lusamine screaming at him, Lillie screaming for him, and then, at last, the Nihilego.

* * *

It had changed.

Its cry had deepened, down from its excitable squeal to an outraged, earth-shattering roar; its body started to swell, darken, and harden with hatred; where its tentacles had broken, black and noxious sludge oozed across the floor.

Guzma had only a second's worth of time to lift himself and fall onto his back―Lusamine had landed several feet away, conscious and throwing curses at him that he couldn't possibly hear.

It moved quickly. He only just started to process what was happening, and it was upon him.

In the darkness, he could see little of its purpling flesh―but by the light filtering from above, he saw its maw opening beneath its melting body―spiralling with delicate fangs glistening with moisture, and spewing a hot and putrid smell that made him woozy. Its wounds splashed sludge on him―it burned where it landed, and he flailed uselessly to avoid it. It hissed, and one of its free tentacles finally lashed out, splitting open his shoulder.

He screamed hysterically, deliriously―

The noise exploded in his head.

 _GUZMA GUZMA GUZMA_

 _DIE DIE DIE_

It latched onto his hands, sucking them into its body and twisting them, until he could swear he felt his bones snapping. He tried to aim a kick at its face to free himself, but it anticipated the move, absorbed his leg, and wrapped another tentacle about his throat.

The teeth-like spines buried into his neck, sending a surge of pain and venom through him all over again. He convulsed, screamed.

Faintly, he heard Lillie screaming, too. "Mr. Guzma!"

His vision darkened, his hearing and blood vessels popped, and slowly, slowly, he felt his lungs seize shut.

* * *

"Please help us! Nebby―!"

* * *

Whirling.

Something shined, enveloping them in harsh light, and knocked both him and the beast through the air. The tentacle dissolved into a soupy mush around his throat, allowing him to gasp for breath; his hands and feet, too, freed themselves to whip around as he first flew and then fell back down to earth. With a thud and a crunch, he landed onto the floor.

His vision hadn't straightened, leaving everything around him fuzzy and indistinct, but he could make out a white, cloudy shape that must be Lillie. She ran up to him. "Mr. Guzma!" He felt her take his hands and help him stagger to his feet.

Loud crashing boomed behind them. The monster and the legendary beast tangled against the cave wall, smashing into its rock face, biting, roaring, hissing.

Lillie must have had a better view of the fight than he did, because she gasped with concern. "Nebby―!"

Countless Nihilego appeared around them, all shrieking their protest. The floor shook and the walls crumbled. Everything was falling apart around them.

...And Lusamine stood to her feet, drenched with rage.

Guzma, still shuddering from the agony of the venom's effects, didn't see her coming. She flung herself at him, pulling on his shirt and shoving him against the wall.

"You idiot! Snivelling coward! What have you done to my beautiful beast!"

"Mother, stop!"

"Everything!" She screamed in his face. "You've ruined everything!"

The monster and the legendary beast gave one last throttle against the far wall, sending a shockwave of breakage throughout the room. The three of them felt the cave floor moving out from under them―the wall Lusamine had backed him into fell away, pouring into a hollow shaft below―

Lusamine and Guzma fell together, and Lillie, jumping at the last minute to safety, cried after them.

* * *

The strange thing was, beyond the sensation of falling, he didn't feel much. Guzma was aware of the rocks grinding through him, bashing his skull and arms and torso as he stumbled further and further down the cave shaft. He was aware, too, of his holding onto Lusamine tightly, feeling her pained writhing as she endured the same beating. It was as if, he decided―as he had a lot of time to think during this fall―his brain had felt the maximum amount of pain for the day, dulling everything else.

They fell― and smashed― and fell some more― until the bottom of the hole swallowed them, immersing them in something deathly cold, thick, and silent.

It took a few seconds for him to realize what it was.

Water.

* * *

For a time, he considered staying there.

The icy cold washed against his skin and bones, numbing the pains, soothing his eyes and throat, cleansing him. He floated, his mind going dark and peacefully quiet.

For a time, he considered surrendering to it, letting it take him. He let out a breath, and watched it dimly float up to the surface and disappear…

A white and gold angel drifted above him...

* * *

His survival instinct finally kicked it, pumping his legs and arms. He flailed, spun, clawed―felt his breath running out and burning his lungs. He was just now regretting holding the dubious honor of being the single worst swimmer to have been born and raised on a tropical island. Fortunately, instinct for it proved strong enough to send him to the surface.

As he broke through and gasped for breath, he suddenly realized he had lost Lusamine. He spun around, spotted her drifting afloat a few feet away―face-down.

"Miss L!" The black water filled his mouth, briefly choking him. He paddled desperately in her direction, cursing his sluggishness, but eventually managed to flip her over and scoop her into his arms.

Lusamine's body ragdolled in his grip, limp and lifeless; her head lolled back against his shoulder. Water sputtered from her mouth, though, signifying that she still breathed.

The tunnel they had fallen into had even less light than the cavern above, making it impossible to see if there was any hard surface to retreat to. Guzma had to guess, paddling slowly with one arm in a random direction. It took an excruciating amount of time―in his exhaustion, it felt like hours―but his feet finally touched bedrock, and he was able to claw around in the dark to find solid ground.

He hoisted her onto shore, dropped her, and panted, desperate to catch his breath. He noticed the handbag strap tangling up against her neck, so he unlooped and removed it from her, deciding he'd better carry it in her stead.

It was surprisingly hefty over his shoulder; he opened the bag, just to satisfy his curiosity. The beast balls were all still there, if a bit soggy from the trip. He recalled the first time he saw them and picked one up in the lab, to the detriment of Faba's heart condition― _young man, that is worth more money than you've ever known, put it down this instant!_

Lusamine moaned. He jumped, shut up the bag, and knelt down next to her. "Miss L?"

She didn't speak, only turning her head to the side.

"You― you feelin' okay?" He pushed his hand under her head to lift her, and felt a sizeable lump on her skull. He winced. "Your head―"

She rolled her head to face him. Her eyes just barely opened and had a faint glimmer of recognition. "...Guzma."

"I'm sorry!" he blurted, upon seeing her eyes meeting his. "Miss L, I― I freaked, I wasn't thinking right, I―"

A random cluster of synapses fired. She reached up, smoothed her hand over his cheek, and smiled at him. "My… beautiful boy…"

She fell limp and unconscious. His heart wrenched so hard, he could swear it was trying to turn itself inside-out.

* * *

Guzma felt―approximately―like he had been put through a blender. Wet, battered, scraped, choked, burned, stabbed, woozy, a little nauseous, and sore. Someday, he thought, I'm gonna write down everything I'm feeling right now, and it's gonna be a world record for misery.

"I better―" He staggered over to the pool and puked a little into the water, easing his nausea somewhat. "Ugh, I better be getting paid for this."

Guzma sat down on the ground. It was about all he was physically capable of doing for the moment. Off in the distance, rumbling still wracked the walls; a rush of air, dust, and rubble crashed through the chute, spewing into the water where they had fallen in. He flinched.

"Geez. What's goin' on up there―?"

He bunched himself up again, a bit uselessly―he was soaked to the bone, and wouldn't be warming up any time soon―but the frigid temperature of the water passed after a few minutes, allowing the pain at his neck to start again. He nervously poked at it. The flesh was tender and sore, pimpled with some sort of cyst-like bumps that bled if he pressed to hard.

"Aw, god."

He could feel the venom traveling again, crawling and biting through his veins. He sat very still, worried that moving around would just spread it further―or faster.

Then he heard a faint voice echoing down the chute. "Mr. Guzma!" Silence for a moment, then more urgently, "Mother! Mr. Guzma!"

Lillie's voice. He thought about crawling over to the chute to return her call, but the very idea pained him, so he sucked in as much air as possible and gave a good yell, hoping it would reach her. "We're―" His voice cracked. He coughed. "We're here!"

"Are you hurt? Is Mother all right?"

He decided not to go into detail. "We're okay!"

For a few seconds, she must have been debating or discussing with someone. After a bit of back-and-forth, she yelled down, "Please, stay where you are! We'll find a way to you!"

He did not have the iota of energy left to respond affirmatively; he mumbled something, slumped against Lusamine's unconscious body, and might have nodded off on the spot if he hadn't heard something.

Out of the shadows… He suddenly realized they weren't alone. All the noise of screaming, crashing, and splashing must have gotten something's attention.

 _Maybe… If I stay completely still… It won't see me._

Then he saw it.

With every blink, the venom coursing through him played games with him, causing him to hallucinate different horrors: he saw the creature rip his head from his body, he saw it breathing fire, he saw it grow additional heads, he saw it growing in size, he even _heard_ it screaming his name and confronting him with every sin he had ever committed. Finally, he resolved to keep his eyes open, forcing himself to stare at it and see it as it was. It pulsated, red and strange in the dark, but gradually, a steady shape remained. It was tall, bulbous, somehow insect-like in its movement.

He heard it―for real this time―growl and creep forward.

Everything in Guzma's body told him to run. Adrenaline gave him the boost to scramble upright, and his feet even acted on their own, turning the other way, but he saw and remembered Lusamine. He couldn't leave her here. He was in no condition to carry her. He was the only thing standing between it and an unconscious her.

The creature took another step in the soft dirt.

 _No more running. No more hiding_. He grit his teeth, sweating bullets, and threw himself back around. He screamed, "Stop right there!"

To his genuine surprise, it hesitated.

This emboldened him to embrace the insanity. He crossed his arms and laughed. "Who you think you comin' up against?"

It shuffled closer.

But he didn't budge. He planted his feet and wildly pumped his arms as he roared, "You stinkin' monster! Don't you know anything? This here's big, bad Guzma! And I ain't afraid of nothing or nobody!"

The beast whirred, grinding its limbs and wings with an increasingly loud, threatening grumble. It took yet another, exploratory step forward.

He grinned broadly, sweat pouring down his face. "Gotta hand it to you, you got guts! I like that!" He pulled the handbag forward against his hip; his hands shook so badly he could hardly open it, much less find the coordination to pick up a single ball and hold it in his hand. "But let's see… What you got…"

His memories after hurling the beast ball were decidedly fuzzy: he remembered, faintly, a sizzle, a crash, something warm in his hand, and darkness, darkness, darkness, punctuated with flashes of lightning.

This time, when he falls, the soup that is his conscious swirls deeply. No more half-measures―it goes down, all the way, until he cannot wake up.

* * *

In his dream, there's pain. Agonizing pain.

And then there is open air, fresh in his lungs.

He sees―or thinks he sees―hands stooping over his body, lifting him, and then he feels―or thinks he feels―the dry warmth of a bed.

The pain doesn't leave yet―

―But it's safe, and he sinks, and he sleeps.

* * *

When Guzma awakened, he felt sunlight prickling his hands. He moved slightly, rustling against a heavy blanket weighing down his chest. His eyes peeled open, revealing a cream-colored ceiling glowing with sunlight that filtered through a large-panel window above his head.

He heard birds. The whirr of insects.

He tried to move again, but it was as if his body hadn't been used in centuries; it dragged stiffly, almost impossibly. He barely had the strength to turn his head against his pillow. He gave the room a quick examination. He didn't recognize it; the walls were some kind of adobe, there were bookshelves, a dresser… A Meowth curled up in another bed.

The unfamiliarity of the room drove him to try and get up again. He heaved himself upward. He kept expecting pain to flare through, stabbing into him all over again, but it never came. All that remained was a crippling exhaustion and stiffness from sleeping too long.

Just as he successfully propped himself up against the headboard, the door at the far end of the room opened.

Guzma, at a loss for who it could possibly be, grabbed the bed cover, as if it could actually do anything to fend off an enemy.

A little girl walked in. He didn't recognize her. She was tiny, dark-skinned, big-haired, and wore elaborate riding wear; she didn't enter very attentively, but when she saw him awake, her expression brightened with a smile. "Well, good morning, big fellow!"

He was so confused that he couldn't return her greeting. She didn't seem to mind―she strode over to his bedside, and was so short that he had to look steeply downward to meet her eyes, even while he was sitting on the bed.

"You're finally awake. I really am relieved!"

It was then that his brain chose to notice he wasn't wearing any clothing beyond his boxer shorts. He tried to bunch the bed-cover over him a bit more thoroughly.

"I don't believe we've formally met. You're the leader of Team Skull, aren't you? The regalia you wore around your neck made that obvious enough. Guzma's your name, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah." He still felt dizzy; the colors of the room whirled. "You.. You're…"

"I'm Hapu. The kahuna of Poni Island."

"Ka… Kahuna…?" He had to squint at her. A small girl? A kahuna? For that matter―Poni Island? He twisted himself, trying to put his feet to the floor.

Hapu stepped forward, easing him back by his shoulders. "Easy there, friend. I don't think you ought to get up; you've been through a lot."

"How long was I―?"

"This is your third morning here. Grandmother says it took until late last night for your fever to break."

Three days? It was already worse than he thought. "And―and, Miss… Lusamine, where is―?"

"The Aether President?" Hapu pondered this deeply, shutting her eyes as she recalled it. "It was the most shocking thing. As we descended the mountain, an Aether Foundation helicopter swooped down to evacuate her for emergency medical assistance. Her condition was not as poor as yours, you see, but she was still unconscious."

"Her," he muttered, heartbroken, "but not me."

Hapu studied his crushed expression, but had no way of understanding how much this meant to him. This, for Guzma, was final evidence of his verdict: _unforgiven_. Left behind. Discarded, like used-up rubbish.

Hapu shook her head. "We brought you here―my home in Poni Valley. Grandmother is a skilled herbalist; Lillie entrusted your health to her capable hands."

"...Lillie?"

"Oh, yes. She stayed here the first night. The poor dear. She could hardly bear to leave your side."

He didn't expect this gesture of loyalty, and at first it baffled him.

Hapu saw his confusion and tried to answer for it. "She said you saved her mother's life."

"I didn't…" He turned to the window bitterly. "I didn't save nobody."

She watched him, unsure of what to say, and eventually changed the topic. "I think you should know: the International Police also stopped by while you were still unconscious. They wanted you for questioning, so naturally, we had to turn them away. I don't know what sort of trouble you're in, but you ought to contact them as soon as you're up to it."

She really was a naive kid. He nodded. "Uh, right. Sure. I guess… A lot's gone on, huh?"

"These have been strange times. Those wormholes that opened so suddenly… Those beasts running rampant, causing all sorts of chaos… Rumors surrounding Aether… No one seems to have an answer."

"...The beasts...?" Guzma had assumed Aether would have snapped them up by now.

"Trainers from all around have tried to fight and capture them, to no avail. The Tapu have done their best to drive them from residential areas, but… It truly is a quandary."

Now, this definitely struck him as odd. He frowned as he mulled it over.

Hapu seemed to realize something, and clapped her hands together. "I'm sorry! Here I am, talking on and on when you must be famished. Grandmother told me you haven't kept much down, aside from the occasional broth. Would you like something to eat?"

"Yeah, sure―"

Hapu turned for the door, and he called after her.

"But―hey, kid!"

She didn't correct him for his improper form of address, only looked at him questioningly.

"Where are my clothes, an' all?"

Hapu interpreted his agitation as an effort to leave and put a hand on her hip. "I still think you ought to focus on resting. As for your belongings, they are safely under your bed, if you wish to check on them. I'll tell Grandmother you're awake―we'll bring food shortly."

* * *

When she left, he dug his hand under the bed awkwardly, grappling for whatever he could pull out. He slid out his jacket, his bling, his pants (pokeballs safely attached), his watch―he did pluck the watch up to check if it still worked. Its glass face, unsurprisingly, sported a large crack, but it made ticking sounds and looked to be in working order. _Thank god._ He slipped it onto his wrist.

Then his hands felt and pulled on something large and leathery.

...Well, this was odd. This wasn't his―

"Handbag."

The white and gold handbag.

He slid it out, stared at it for a second, then felt a powerful wave of realization.

"Holy―"

He yanked it upward, landing it in his lap. He unzipped it, opened it. The beast balls.

His heart _leaped_. He could have wept with relief. "They're here," he whispered to himself. "They're all here!" He passed his fingers through them, just to prove they weren't the product of his fevered brain. They were smooth and warm to the touch.

...A thought struck him, then. Was this why...? Had Lusamine put all her proverbial eggs in one basket―was he holding her entire supply? Perhaps upon returning to Aether, and realizing she no longer had them, she assumed they had been lost in the scuffle of the Ultra Space, never to be recovered. If that was true...

He grinned, scooping the bag up with his arms and clinging it to his chest. The beast balls glistened with promise.

"I can still fix this... I still have a chance…"

Guzma could see the future lay out in front of him and could not wait to bury his teeth into it.


	6. Hunter

**Chapter 6: Hunter**

Every child in Alola, at some point, is taught the stories of the Little People, the _Menehune_ , who live deep in the islands' forests. These tiny people, analogous to the myths of trolls or elves, were said to have built the mysterious rock formations sometimes found in hidden valleys and meadows; they burrowed into mountainsides, hunted game, and played wicked tricks on any who dared venture alone in the woods. These stories were never told in earnest―by the time most children learned them, they were too old to believe in them. It was just another way for parents to tease their children― _don't go too far, or the Little People might catch you!_

It's strange, though, how stories not believed can haunt you.

Guzma hadn't thought about the Menehune in what―fifteen years?―but here, in the rainy depths of Mount Hokulani's forests, feeling the freezing rain slide down his back, his eyes tracing the evening shadows of wind-blown trees, he thought of them again. In fact, he could have sworn he had seen one.

He breathed out fog through his half-mask and shivered. His mind, feeble with hunger and exhaustion, played tricks on him. It was easy to see figures in the moving shadows and mist; it was easy to hear the trickling raindrops falling from leaves as small bare feet scuttling over the ground. He thought he heard goblin-giggling, foul mischief-plotting whispers, the rattle of spears tipped with sharpened teeth. In his mania, the glints from splashed rain even appeared like beady, hungry eyes.

His eyelid twitched, and he shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He squatted, pulling his hood tighter over his head and fixing the position of the goggles over his face―eventually giving up on making them comfortable and pulling them down around his neck. No one around anyway. The nearest road with any potential witnesses was a good half-mile away, far north from where he intended to go.

From the mountainside, he can look out, down past the tips of the trees, and see the looming walls of Po Town.

He mutters a curse, heaving his backpack, and takes a step down into the valley.

Guzma had been out here for too long and too alone.

But it was getting dark, and he had a long way to go.

* * *

In the past weeks of traveling, hunting, and running, Guzma had learned much. Among his lessons: his adolescence had not prepared him for the roughness of living in the wilderness; he could not stand being alone; the beasts terrified him more than he could have ever anticipated; and last, the beasts could sense one other and, for reasons he didn't understand, _him_.

Though he had no way to confirm his theory, he assumed it was smell, or something like smell. Maybe the beasts picked up on each other's scent, and after a visit to Ultra Space, he smelled like them, too.

It meant his strategy was the same tonight. Bait, and track―walk in a wide perimeter in a hot zone, and then use his own beast to finally flush the other beast out.

Incidentally, this strategy had failed not once, but twice so far this week.

(He was getting really, really tired of these sopping, soggy, fog-laden woods. His socks, even under his heavy boots, soaked through by the first morning, and had been wet ever since.)

* * *

Finally, Guzma stopped, looked about the familiar patch of forest that he had circulated so many times before, and plucked a ball from his pocket.

"Alright, Lady, you're up."

When Pheromosa materialized before him―prim, ethereal, elegant, glowing―he didn't waste any time. He slouched toward the ground and gave her a determined look.

"You know what to do."

Then he waited.

The roach beast did not offer a nod or any other expression he might have received from a pokemon, but she slowly straightened her form, craning her slender neck upward in an attentive manner. Her sweeping antennae twitched and flowed ribbon-like in the breeze; she took small, deliberate steps to turn herself in every direction. Her transparent, milky carapace dripped with rain, and the faint light she emitted made the winding droplets sparkle in the darkness of the evening, like fine crystals. She looked. Waited. Looked another direction. Pondered. She did, for a moment, look in his direction, but not at him―her purple gaze was so focused on her task, that she looked _through_ him, like he was a speck in her field of vision.

Guzma didn't rush her.

She stepped westward, but he didn't let himself get excited. She was adjusting her position―that was all. He followed her carefully down a rocky incline, watching his step but also keeping his eyes on her.

The two of them walked a crooked path, cutting through the trees, stopping occasionally. It must have been a solid ten, fifteen minutes before Pheromosa froze, lifted her antennae in a stiff arch, and locked her gaze in a cardinal direction.

Guzma started digging in his jacket pocket, fiddling with the beast balls resting there, and let out a hot, anxious breath. She felt it. He recognized the posturing as clearly as if she had screamed it. His ears filled with the frenzied beating of his heart.

When she started to bend down, limbs tense, he had to whisper to her. If he let her, she would shoot out into the night like a comet and never be seen again.

"Easy… Easy…" He licks the dryness from his lips. "Wait for me."

Evening had come. It became dark―truly dark. And they crept their way along the incline, deeper and deeper into nowhere, deeper in the direction of a Wild One.

When he first encountered the creature days ago, he underestimated it. Its tiny stature and papery wings made it appear fragile and easy subdued. But it went on the make a fool out of him for the next three days.

He had a plan this time, though. A good plan. He wouldn't be caught off guard again.

By the glow of Pheromosa's body, he could see a little, and he spent every step looking about, keeping his eyes peeled. Her antennae continued to twitch intensely, so he knew it had to be close.

* * *

The Kartana folded itself into a flat, straight shape beneath the dripping leaves.

In its brain, if one can call the vague stimulation and energy that drives its body a 'brain', it understood very little. Its processes primarily functioned to intake stimuli and respond appropriately―to run from pain, danger, heat, moisture―to attack aggressors―to sense and seek out sustenance. And ultimately, it had thrived in its world. Ultra Space offered the safety of dark, a thick and consistent atmosphere rich with minerals, and barren rock into which it could nest. But since coming to this world, snatched by the sudden opening, it suffered for its maladaptation. Here, the atmosphere was wet, dynamic, and thin; light blinded it by day; every surface it rested on crawled overcrowded with fauna and flora, some of it microscopic but nonetheless pervasive.

The Kartana did not feel fear―its brain was nowhere near advanced enough to produce such an emotion―but it flattened, readied its golden-tipped wings, and listened to the steps of the creatures that came near, each of them vibrating with the tempting wormhole energy. One idea shivered through its neural processor, giving it life: _home_.

* * *

Guzma looked up at the branch and let out an excited shout.

"There!" Before he gave himself time to think, he fell forward, wrestling his goggles back on. "Lady―!"

And he saw her go―a white streak of light into the black woods.

He yelped and broke into a full breakneck run after her. His head felt light, his body protested, and his heart pounded like it would at any moment break out of his chest. But he went, and hollered as loud as he could between his gasps for air. "Go, just go, just _get it!_ "

Guzma's eyes had adjusted to the dark, enough to slam himself successfully through the brush, dodging trees, heavy branches, and other obstacles. He felt rain and branches whipping him in the face―those goggles weren't only a disguise―but he steeled himself and strained his vision. Off in the narrow distance, he could see the faint white blurs that were the beasts, clashing, chasing, and rushing one another. He pumped his legs as hard as he possibly could, until his lungs started popping from the strain, and he still felt himself falling behind.

"Bring it _back!_ Back, you hear me!?"

Screeches, slices in the air―he hears impacts whistling through the trees. Wooden crashes fill the forest as trunks are toppled and cut apart; birds flee into the air in panicked flocks.

His biggest nemesis in the chase, as usual, was not the dark or the winding pathways, but the moisture: the loose earth crumbled under his feet, stumbling him; hills sank, mud sucked on his feet, and rocks, slick with rain, slipped his feet out from under him. But he had learned to fumble his way through it―thrust his arms wildly out to collect his balance, move with the falls, slide with the collapsing hills―hit the ground hard, batter himself countless times, but throw himself back up to keep running. He lands badly on his ankle, he slips and bangs his hip on a rock face he doesn't see, but he grunts, and he pushes, pushes, pushes himself through the woods.

Finally, his frantic running and all the bruises that came with it paid off.

* * *

Pheromosa and Kartana shared strength and speed. Neither found an upper-hand straight away, each landing blows that winded the other: the roach swung her agile legs, kicking it against rocky earth and wood. And the origami figure swirled through the air, delivering cuts to her flowing carapace and knocking her back.

They circled in a small clearing, eyeing one another, burning with alien desire and frenzy.

Guzma, breaking out of the woods, witnessed this circling and took it as a sign. He fumbled backwards, crouching into the brush to observe from afar.

"A'ight. So…" He dug around his pocket, drawing out the glittering blue beast ball. He pressed it briefly to his forehead, as if attempting a psychic connection. "Zap, I swear to god. Do not screw this up for me. Got it?!"

He shut his eyes and gave a silent, earnest little prayer for this to work.

"Okay."

He crossed his fingers, too, just to be safe.

"Zap, you're up."

As Xurkitree emerged, he took an instinctive step backward. Too many times, he had suffered for standing too close and taking a hit of static electricity; it always crackled lively as it first unwrapped itself and stood on its corded legs. It stood tall―taller than Guzma liked―and swayed its limbs freely. He tried to get its attention, but with its blank, spiked head, he could never tell if the creature was legitimately looking at him.

Guzma puffed his chest and summoned his most authoritative voice. "Alright―listen up! Lady's got this one on the run―so I need you to―"

...And almost immediately, the Xurkitree wobbled its arms and began ambling towards the tree trunk directly behind Guzma, even nudging him out of the way with its thick, rubbery tail.

He had to stumble to keep his footing. "Zap, where are you―hey!"

With a curious, electrical burble, it lifted its arms and began to tug and crawl its way under into the tree branches.

"Get―get down from there! Hey! I'm talkin' to you! I didn't say―"

Branches snapped under the pressure of its feet, sending sticks and leaves tumbling onto Guzma's head. He ducked, dodged, and swore profusely. Finally, Xurkitree seemed to have found its place, settling and perching on a large branch some thirty feet above the ground. Rather than express any interest on what happened below, the beast hummed, playfully shook its sitting place, and explored the leaves with its copper fingers.

"Ugh!" This was _exactly_ what he was afraid of. Guzma growled and tugged at his own hair, cursed, then shook a finger at it like a disobedient puppy. "B-bad! Very bad! Understand?!"

It made a buzzing, hissing noise, and wrapped another rope of cords about an adjoining branch, solidifying its hold. (These beasts―he could never tell if they were hearing him, feeling the impact of his words, feeling any emotions―)

"That's it! When―when this is all over, you're in big trouble, hear me? You're gonna hurt, I swear it!"

Xurkitree showed what it thought of that threat by spitting a blue snap of lightning below it, landing right before his feet. He scrambled backwards; he could swear he heard its sizzling giggles.

He knew it was going to make matters worse, but he still lost his temper, stomping the ground and screaming at it. "You think that's funny, huh?! Just wait! I'm gonna bust your bulb so bad―!"

―Another snap of electricity at his feet, another yelp, and then their little feud was interrupted.

The Kartana flew, slamming into a nearby tree and spraying splinters everywhere. Guzma flinched, covering his face, so that he could hear, but not see, the impact of Pheromosa crashing into the tree as well. He collapsed and crawled momentarily for safety, but as soon as he found cover, the two creatures had flown off again, continuing to pound each other.

He wheezed from the dust, but did not give up on his recalcitrant beast. "You see that?" he shouted up into the tree. "All I need! Just hit that paper dude! As hard as you can! I think that'll be enough!"

His pleading worked―or perhaps the proximity to the fight stirred up its innate desire to battle. In any case, Xurkitree swung upward, buzzed emphatically, and lifted its arms to the stormclouds above. It all happened devastatingly fast: a rumble in the clouds, a flash, sparks raining down on Guzma's head, the sharp smell of burning wood―

Lightning licked out, crackling and lapping up a path on the shuddering ground. Pheromosa squealed in protest after narrowly escaping its trajectory. When the first bolt dissipated, more bolts rained down randomly, crashing into stones and brush and trees.

"Aim! Aim, you stupid―!"

Just when Guzma was sure the whole forest was going to set fire, the Kartana whirled into the air, poised for a fast turn, and was lit up, a needle at the end of a thread of white lightning.

Guzma expected a scream―some show of pain. But the current of electricity faded, and the Kartana twirled silently for a moment, drifting, floating downward. Then, at last, it fell to the ground and went still.

Guzma didn't waste a single second: he bolted, dug around for a free beast ball, and chucked it. All the possibilities flew through his head―things that could go wrong―for a second, he thought his luck and fortune were about to evaporate, some natural cataclysm ready to crash down on top of him―

But the ball made contact, took it in, glowed and shook, and―locked.

When he jogged over to it, he still shook, like some tension hadn't relieved yet. He approached, shakily picked it up with both hands, felt its warmth between his palms...

* * *

Guzma shrieked. "HA! YES! OH MY GOD!" With no one around to watch, he exploded into hooting, screaming, hopping around, and in general making a gigantic fool out of himself. He pumped his fists in the air, kicked up rubble, kissed the beast ball passionately. "THOUGHT I COULDN'T DO IT, HUH? BUT YOUR BOY DID! THAT'S RIGHT! ME!"

In his relief, he fell to his knees and laughed hysterically.

"I DID IT! I FINALLY DID IT―!"

―Then, abruptly, his laughter faded. He looked around himself. All the joy sucked out of him, replaced with a strange sense of dread.

Something wasn't right.

* * *

He hears something in the forest―his mind, in a tizzy, thinks again about the Menehune and their rustling bodies―

Pheromosoa still ran wild, her long legs propelling her into a cluster of trees; Xurkitree still clung to its top branch, screeching and throwing bolts down at random spots on the ground.

Then he saw it. Something else―the thing both his beasts were pursuing in their madness―and it was coming straight for him.

―He was wrong.

Devastatingly wrong.

There were _two_ of them.

* * *

The second Kartana aimed for his head. It was strange, realizing that and thinking, if I don't dodge this, my head's gone, it's gonna fly off mid-air, land a few feet away, roll a bit―

Guzma threw himself onto the ground, bracing his arms over his head, and heard the whistle of sweeping metal pass within inches above him, leaving him unharmed.

He screamed frantically, thinking it might come back around. He just barely managed not to sob from terror. "Lady! LADY!"

He thought he heard her coming―the distant thudding of her feet―but he also heard another sound, more pertinent and sharp. Like a thunder-clap, a loud creaking of a rusty hinge, a series of popping noises that came faster and louder as he listened. Fearing that getting up meant another near-miss decapitation, he moved his arms to peer about his surroundings while still on the ground.

He saw, too late, the growing shape of a tree cut down by the Kartana's wing, the trunk collapsing and falling in his direction. He panicked, pushed himself up―lost his footing in the mud, costing him even more precious seconds before he was doomed to be crushed―and felt a hard impact at his back, briefly enjoying the sensation of being carried through the cold, misty air.

Though Pheromosa had successfully snatched him, and though they had jumped some far distance, the tree's outer branches still crashed around them, snaring his body; a series of lightning-loud snaps filled his ears; whip-like branches lashed and cut into his legs and arms. He shouted and struggled against the pain, nearly causing her to lose her grip.

The ground shook, rubble and mud sprayed, but they landed relatively unharmed. It took a few seconds of his thrashing around to untangle them both from the leaves.

"We gotta―" Guzma tried to speak, but he gasped for air so hard that it got to be impossible to get words out. His gripped his chest and wheezed. "We gotta― we gotta―!" He tried pointing with his free hand, gesticulating frantically in the direction of the wild beast's escape route.

Pheromosa gave him an expression that he highly suspected meant, _are you serious?_

He caught his breath enough to angrily rebuke her. "Can't― let it get away!"

Though badly shaken, Guzma stumbled over the rest of the downed tree and tried to start running for it. It became quickly apparent, though, that he had spent that last of his energy; he dragged, huffed, and staggered to a halt. He looked back at Pheromosa, who still stood where he had left her.

"Whatta you waiting for?"

But Guzma knew, cognitively, that it was over. The wild beast had run, no doubt at the peak of its strength; Xurkitree still dangled in its respective tree, having gotten bored of the whole affair and not receptive to orders; Pheromosa had done more than her share for the night; and Guzma had almost died twice.

This was it.

He felt his denial melt away, and anger blister through him.

"Stupid―stupid!"

He didn't have the energy to throw a tantrum, but he did give a nearby rock a solid kick.

* * *

"So…"

Guzma drew his gaze up ahead.

It had been a long walk back to camp―longer than he remembered it ever being―but he couldn't tell if the distance was longer or his steps were sagging. The trudge could take forever if he let his head race, retrace every mistake he made.

Pheromosa walked carefully ahead of him, there primarily to illuminate his path, though as always, there was a selfish motive to his freeing her. He liked watching her. He liked trying to talk to her.

"Thanks for saving me."

He tells her this, even though it isn't necessary. Pheromosa, as if she knew this, didn't stop to acknowledge his gratitude.

"I woulda been mincemeat―" He decided to change the subject. "Hey, at least we got the one, right? So we've got half the job done―and I think that'll be―"

Pheromosa had yet to slow down, turn her head, or make a sound.

He scratched his head… Why was it that every time he talked to her, it felt like a date that was going _really badly_?

* * *

Camp, as he called it, resembled very little of the tented variety―he had no fire, no constructed shelter, no amenities that might accompany a more accomplished survivalist. All that he had claimed for himself was a narrow cave up along the mountainside, high enough to ward off casual hikers, and covered by a thick enough layer of trees to obscure anyone's view of the place from below. The cave was a narrow opening in the bedrock and not particularly deep, but there was space enough, and most importantly, it stayed dry even in the harsh weather.

The rain had steadied by the time they reached camp, spilling streams of water over the mountainside, so it took some careful maneuvering of his feet not to slip and break his head open. He prayed Pheromosa was paying attention.

Upon successfully hoisting himself onto the ledge, and crawling upward to the entrance of the cave, he noticed one thing out of place. Golisopod sat on its haunches, wedged into the cave's mouth, and appeared to be mouthing its displeasure.

Guzma got closer, looked it over, and shook his head in aggravation. "Did you find anything?"

Golisopod squawked bitterly and tried to wedge in harder, away from the rain.

"Did you even try?"

Golisopod stomped huffily, which he interpreted as a sarcastic 'what do you think?'

He looked quickly about. The others―his Ariados, his Masquerain, his Pinsir―were nowhere to be seen. Presumably, they were still foraging and eating, as he instructed them to. They had adapted easily to their new circumstances, even making a game out of it. But Golisopod, he now regrettably realized, was too spoiled rotten and lazy to be told to take care of itself. It shunned the berries and the edible flora of the wilds, preferring to hassle Guzma for his limited prepackaged goods.

Guzma let himself get irritated. "Fine! I guess you're starving then, huh?"

Though Golisopod grunted and complained after him, he stalked past it to throw down his backpack on the cave floor. He let out a heavy, echoing groan and spilled his body down to the ground. He lay there for several minutes, until his head spun and threatened to sleep.

"Nuh," he grunted, rolling over. "Not yet, not yet―"

There had to be something to think about, something to do. He could dwell on his failure tonight, or his brief moment of success, but that could keep him up all night.

He looked back out the mouth of the cave. Golisopod had settled against the wall, pouting. But beyond that, outside, Guzma squinted and could see "Lady" standing a little ways off, her carapace puffed up over her head to shield her from the rain.

Guzma had never been very creative in naming things, and his nicknames for the beasts, in lieu of knowing their technical ones, revealed this: "The Big Guy," "Lady," "Zap," "Rocket," "Muncher," and of course the dreaded "Jellyfish."

He hadn't worked with all of them. Most of them spelled trouble―"Rocket" was the size of a tower and could probably scorch a city with a sneeze, "Muncher" the size of a house, he didn't bring out "Jellyfish" for obvious reasons―so he was left with "The Big Guy," whom he distrusted intensely (it was hard to trust a creature when your first memory of it, even if it was merely a venom-induced hallucination, was seeing it rip your head from your body), and "Zap," who had proven tonight to be as uncontrollable as ever.

And then, there was "Lady."

Guzma could not decide whether he loved her or feared her the most. There were so many disturbing and hauntingly beautiful parts to her. Her bipedal body, slim and elegant, stood only a few inches shorter than him, making her both easy to interact with and a little too eerily human. Her large, purple eyes would watch him steadily with an impenetrable emotion―perhaps curiosity, perhaps affection, perhaps something… else. Certainly, she was the calmest of the beasts, the easiest to control, and listened most carefully to him, but she remained… Cold. Set apart. Resistant to touch, even after weeks of building trust. Almost deathly silent, aside from the occasional, child-like coo. In the evenings, if he allowed her to, she would stand on some precipice away from them, staring out into the stars with heartbreaking longing. As if this world and all its inhabitants, including him, did not meet her standards.

No wonder he called her "Lady"―no wonder he sometimes slipped out a "Miss," or "Ma'am."

Though she could come off as a bit snobbish, he had consistent fits of pity for her. So when he saw her now drenched in the rain, he couldn't stop himself from getting up, throwing his hood over his head, and approaching her.

He stood next to her silently at first, warming her up to his presence.

"You wanna get out of the rain?"

Pheromosa stood perfectly still, like she hadn't heard him.

"You could… You know… The cave's got plenty of room."

She regarded his words by turning her head slowly, giving the cave a critical eye, and tensing. Puzzled by her reaction, he turned, too, and found her and Golisopod staring at each other uneasily.

"Tch! C'mon!" He let out a frustrated growl. "We talked about this!" He still hadn't much luck getting any of his beasts to interact with his pokemon. Whenever he freed the beasts and pokemon near each other, they would glare and hiss, scuttle away from one another, raise their respective hackles, and not budge an inch closer, no matter how he pleaded or bribed or threatened. "Look, he won't hurt you. He's just dumb."

She looked at him, then at Goliosopod, then at him again―fluttered her eyes like he was nothing―and turned back to look over the valley, unmoved.

"...Whatever. The others are out looking for grub. Maybe you oughtta go, too."

She didn't respond. Something off in the distance had captivated her; he tried to figure out what it was, but had no success.

"...Or-r-r, you wanna hang with somebody else? I could, uh, bring out The Big Guy. Seein' as you're both bug beasts, an' all― or I could put you back in your ball―"

Still no response.

He sighed and shook his head, giving up. "A'ight, Lady. Do what you want." He didn't leave right away, instead puffing his shoulders and letting his thoughts spin in the freedom of the dark. But he didn't notice until it was too late that the exhaustion he had shoved off, and off, and off, was creeping in.

He falls forward.

* * *

 _His sight darkens for a moment in his reeling; when it returns to him, Lusamine stands beside him._

 _Lusamine is not herself._

 _She wears a flowing nightgown, soaked and clinging to her body. Her feet are bare on the rock. She stands with a far-away look, that sad look he saw in her when she watched her reflection. She looks out over the valley with her hands folded before her._

 _He can see her lips moving, but can't make out what she's whispering over the rain. Water falls over her; her hair sags, long and brilliant as a starry night. She glows and glitters._

 _"Miss L."_

 _When he reaches over to touch one of her hands, they are ice._

Pheromosa caught him on his way down.

His vision still blurred, but he pushed his legs beneath him to bring himself upright. After a second, he was able to stand free of her. He looked at her, but couldn't read anything close to sympathy or worry in her expression―just the same blank stare. "I'm okay," he panted, steadying himself. "I'm okay, I just... " Spots come into his vision, and he blinks them away. "I really gotta eat somethin'."

* * *

Beneath the cave's ceiling, he collapsed, pulled his backpack onto his lap, and tore it open to search for food. He pulled out an energy bar. The clerk at the store claimed they were good for hiking, that sort of thing. Guzma had tasted bricks with more flavor. At least they were cheap. He briefly dug around his bag, looking for more, but he had no luck. He gave the bar in his hand a bitter look. His last one.

Golisopod appeared suddenly, snuffling around and drooling on his arm.

"You―!" He elbowed it harshly. "Buzz off! I'm not sharing!"

Golisopod evidently thought he was bluffing and pressed its mandibles into his wrist, chewing playfully.

He socked it on the nose and moved the bar to his opposing hand to pull it away. "I mean it! I haven't had any real food in like _three days_ , so I can't, all right?"

Golisopod shuffled, tittered, and collapsed its head on his lap with a hefty pout.

Guzma's stomach growled. He sighed, tore the package open, and broke the bar in half―giving himself the slighter larger half and slipping the other into Golisopod's mouth. As his pokemon chewed happily, he shut his eyes and imagined, as hard as he could, a steak, a fried fish fillet, a burger, a deep-fried sugar-encrusted malasada―and put the last bit of bar into his mouth.

Nope, didn't work. It was dry and tasteless, and measly in his empty stomach.

Still, after a few minutes, his dizziness passed, and he felt a little stronger, though he had a strong suspicion that a stiff breeze could still knock him over. He fell back, throwing himself onto the hard floor of the cave. He stuffed his backpack under his head as a makeshift pillow.

 _Let's see… Cold, dark, hungry… In a cave…_ Didn't this feel delightfully familiar?

Golisopod growled and shoved its head into his side, no doubt protesting that it was still hungry.

"'Sokay, buddy," he wheezed, patting its head. His eyes drooped with exhaustion and he folded his hands over his chest. "When I, you know, starve to death, you can eat me."

Golisopod didn't think this was very funny.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm thinking."

He sealed his eyes shut, letting his consciousness swim for a while to the sound of rain. He didn't have any money left―that had dried up last week. Anyway, he could hardly risk the trip into town―too many people could recognize him and cause him trouble. There had to be tourists around… Campers or hikers he could rob…

He thought, miserably, about Po Town. Its proximity drove him crazy some days, but he knew―one hundred percent―that he couldn't go there.

And then he remembered one place.

* * *

When Kahuna Nanu opened the door to the Po Town police station, Guzma, face completely covered, shoved his foot in the doorway, pinned one hand to the door itself, and with his other hand, pushed in a knife inches from Nanu's face.

As it was past midnight, Nanu had not come to the door dressed in his usual attire. His police uniform had evidently been put up, and the man had dressed down, ready to settle in for the night―striped t-shirt, black police hoodie, black sweatpants and, get this, slippers, like the kind geezers at nursing homes shuffle around in.

At any other time, Guzma would've cracked up. _Nanu in his PJ's!_ But he tried to keep himself focused, because things were already not going as planned; Nanu, rather than looking threatened and backing into the station, slightly _leaned away_ his face from the knife, like it smelled repulsive. Guzma had counted on his size to intimidate the old man―Guzma had always towered over him in height―but the officer sneered and griped at him.

"Whadda you want?" the officer snarled at him, like he was already tired of whatever was unfolding.

"Let me in, old man!"

Nanu studies him a quick second. "...So he makes an appearance. All the hubbub you've stirred up on my island―"

"Shut up and let me in!"

The knife still lingered in Nanu's face, but the kahuna had since stopped looking at it. "Why don't you go bother your Po Town buddies instead? Leave me outta your nonsense."

"I―" He then realized Nanu knew who he was. He couldn't say he was too surprised, but Guzma did surprise himself, when he admitted to Nanu, "I can't."

"Uh-huh." Nanu didn't sound impressed. He glanced up and down Guzma's figure, noting especially the half-mask and broad motorcycle goggles. "Who exactly do you think you're foolin' with that get-up?"

"I ain't―" Why was he explaining himself? He huffed and pulled his goggles against his head and his mask against his throat, revealing his face. "I coulda been spotted on the way here."

Nanu scoffed. "Good thing you weren't. You look like an idiot."

Guzma pushed a little harder through the doorway in retaliation. "You lettin' me in or not?!"

As Nanu mulled it over, he scratched the back of his neck and made resentful sounds in the back of his throat. Finally, he made a decision. "Put the knife away, you dink." He backed away from the door, leaving it open, and grumbled irritably, "Coulda asked nicely. Got half a mind to..."

* * *

When Guzma entered the station, Nanu grunted. "Boots off."

Guzma had never been one to lurk around Nanu's place. That was more Plumeria's gig―she liked to wander over here, hang out, exchange barbs with the old man. Guzma guessed, though he wasn't certain, that she did it to fulfill some longing for adult company. Guzma preferred to stay clear of the place, and when Nanu had the stones to wander into his turf in Po Town, he always made his disapproval clear. He let the old man stick around―they needed the money―but he distrusted the man's motives. What kind of geezer is willing to live in an abandoned police station? What kind of guy lives around little kids like that, tries to talk to them and give them sweets? A weirdo, Guzma thinks. Maybe some kinda perv.

(They battled, once. If ever asked about it, Guzma would only darkly mutter that the old man cheated.)

Guzma looked around the mostly unfamiliar territory as he kicked off his muddy boots and peeled off his socks. It was neater than he expected, but littered with cat beds and beady-eyed Meowth. He stepped past what was once the waiting area for the station, into what looked to be Nanu's living space, with a table, adjoining couch, computer, and a television set. Guzma searched and found the kitchenette tucked behind a series of dividers hung with clothing.

He realized Nanu was staring at him. Guzma's bare feet rested on the linoleum floor, pooling with the rain-water dripping from his body.

"You look a mess," Nanu observed dryly. "You here to turn yourself in?"

"I'm here to rob you."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case." Nanu wandered over to his sofa, planted himself in front of the TV, and turned on the news. A Meowth promptly skittered over to him and settled in his lap.

Guzma stood for a few moments, gauging Nanu's reaction, as if he didn't totally believe how easy this was. Eventually, though, he passed it off as Nanu-being-Nanu. He momentarily craned his neck to see the television screen. Was there anything about him? No―some hard-hitting journalism about a new malasada flavor. He was safe for now.

Guzma trailed into the kitchen first and opened the fridge―found nothing but stacks of beer and one carton of milk. He grabbed the milk carton. His search of the cupboards wasn't much better―he found rows of instant ramen and cans of cat food. "Do you have _any_ real food around here?"

"Well, if I knew I was gonna be robbed today, maybe I woulda gone shopping." Nanu lifted a hand, waving for him. "Get me a beer while you're up."

Guzma wasn't going to do it at first. But then a thought struck him, so he went back to the fridge, pulled a beer, and started to hand it to him.

Nanu reached for it and tugged, but Guzma didn't let go.

"Your rent's up, old man," Guzma said.

Nanu didn't stray his eyes from the television. "That so? Huh." He took the now-freed beer bottle and pointed listlessly at the coat rack. "Wallet's in the right pocket. Bring it 'ere."

Guzma was about to spout off on him for sending him around on errands.

"Kid, what are you waiting for? I'm not getting any younger."

He snorted, stomped over to the coat rack, and when he retrieved the wallet, chucked it impatiently in Nanu's direction.

The kahuna rolled his eyes and opened it. "How much is it this time?"

"Twenty thousand."

"Let's make it fifteen―and I won't tell Rainbow you stopped by."

Guzma growled. He had forgotten Nanu's favorite negotiation tactic―answering every number Guzma gave him with a lowball and undercutting him in the process. It was only reason Nanu's rent was so ridiculously cheap to begin with. "Tch! Look, geezer. I don't have time to play your games. This is sort of an emergency!"

Nanu studied him for a long second, curled his lip, and said, "Y'know, I'm suddenly remembering you stuck a knife in my face. Fourteen."

"E-MER-GEN-CY!" Guzma was _this_ close to begging before his patience wore thin and he snatched the wallet from Nanu's hands. He ignored Nanu's shout and opened it. "Five-ten-fifteen- _twenty_ thousand," Guzma counted, then threw the wallet back onto the couch. "You tell Plumeria I was here, I'll come back and stomp you _and_ your stupid cats."

Although Nanu gave him a nasty death-glare and made a few choice threats that should not be repeated in polite company, the kahuna did not choose to get up. Instead, he lifted his legs up onto the table in front of him, crossing them lazily, and picked up his beer.

Guzma suddenly regretted his lashing out, because now he was thinking about Plumeria. He waited a minute for Nanu to settle back into watching his television, and tried to slyly slip back into a conversation. "So, uh―how is she, anyway, is she―?"

"You mind?" Nanu gestured to the TV to indicate he was trying to listen. "Cripes, this is the longest robbery I've ever put up with."

Guzma glowered, briefly fantasized about knocking the old man to the floor, then snorted to himself. "Whatever."

With no other options, Guzma resorted to pulling a series of instant noodle cups from the shelves and banging around the kitchen, trying to find utensils, water, and heat. Guzma went on to cook and consume three cups of ramen―he almost stopped at two, but he didn't know when his next hot meal would come. He also downed the remaining milk.

Nanu said nothing as he did all this. In fact, he was eerily quiet―Guzma occasionally glanced over at him, just to check he hadn't died of heart failure or something old-people related.

 _I could leave,_ Guzma realized then. But he was starting to feel the lack of urgency to go back outside to stumble through woods and sleep in his dank campgrounds. This place was no Ritz hotel, but it had heat, comfortable furniture, and electricity. So Guzma lingered around, trying to look busy as Nanu continued watching television.

Suddenly, after a few minutes of this, Nanu burst into a loud, terrifying snarl of a laugh, eyes still on the screen. He actually slapped his thigh, startling the Meowth sleeping on his lap so bad that it hissed and dashed under the table. "Ha! Look at you!"

Guzma whirled his head around, confused. Then his face fell.

The blurry, pedestrian footage was footed with scrolling headlines: _"BEAST TAMER" SPOTTED ON ULA'ULA ― MASKED VIGILANTE SETS SIGHTS ON NEW ULTRA BEASTS? ― POLICE ON HIGH ALERT ― FANS SNAP PICTURES, SHARE SIGHTINGS ONLINE_

Nanu chortled darkly over his reading of the news ticker. "You ever watch these idiots chatter about you? It's hilarious. One genius has this theory that you're actually a girl. Almost had me convinced."

Guzma grimaced.

It was all a horrible mistake, really.

Once he decided on what he had to do, he first had to pick a disguise. He couldn't run around as himself―police had already been looking for him, and if someone spotted him capturing the beasts, they would have even more reason to pursue him. So he picked out what he _thought_ would be nondescript: a loose and dark hoodie, a cap, a mask to cover his nose and mouth, and some motorcycle goggles. Combined, they made him impossible to identify; he figured it was perfect.

But his first mission turned disastrous.

His first confirmed contact with a wild beast―in the heart of the forests of Akala―was meant to be short, quick, and painless. He used the beast he captured in Ultra Space to track it, deciding he might as well use fire to fight fire. The Buzzwole did well at first, seeming to obey his commands, finding the twist of wires and cables known as Xurkitree within hours. They cornered it―Guzma had his beast ball ready―and then, suddenly, both beasts decided to _go insane_ and run. They battled each other hysterically through the forest, ignoring Guzma's epithets and screams for control, knocking over trees and charging down roadways. For a while, he even lost sight of them, but it proved easy enough to find them once he reached Heahea City and found fleeing crowds of tourists and residents. His beast―smashing parked cars, tearing light poles from their mounts―and the wild one, stabbing its copper fingers into the electrical currents of the city and zapping everything in sight.

One can imagine, then, what it must have looked like for the cowering public: two monsters battling each other in the square of the city, with no hope of anyone being able to stop it; a strange, tall and mysterious figure dressed rather conspicuously in dark and obscuring clothing; the figure wrestling their way toward the fight, taking command of one of the beasts and then, to their astonishment, capturing the other.

Pictures snapping away. Videos being recorded from virtually every angle.

And then the figure ducked away, disappearing without offering a name or explanation.

The media simply _exploded_.

The combination of public fear, the mystery, and the epic battle―collateral damage and all―had all combined into some sort of sprawling mythology―"vigilante," "masked figure," "crusader," even, most ridiculously, "hero." The fact that the figure continued to pop up at random times, appearing to own, command, and catch the impossible creatures―made the coverage even more breathless and awed.

For Guzma, though, this had all become quite the headache. It meant he had to avoid cities more and more, pushing him to camp out in the wilderness for days at a time. He couldn't risk conducting his hunts near populated areas, lest some idiot snap a picture, post it, and alert the police to his presence. And the idiotic theories! He was a government agent; he was an alien; he was an experimental lifeform grown in a lab; he was working for Team Rocket; he was a mad scientist plotting the destruction of the world. Or―he was a chick, apparently.

―And he _hated_ the name "Beast Tamer" with a passion.

Guzma huffed, turned from the TV, and announced, "Gramps, I'm taking a shower."

"...What?" Nanu turned to him, furious. "Absolutely not."

"I reek! And I'm freezing! So yeah, I am!" Guzma strode toward the back of the station, ducking behind the dividers.

Nanu, though he didn't get up, still yelled, "Hey! I'm not running a shelter for homeless bums!"

* * *

It wasn't until he undressed and stood under the water that he realized how much pain he was in. It hurt to stand up―to walk―to breathe, even. He hobbled, trying and failing to rest his weight on muscles that weren't sore or flesh that wasn't bruised.

When he stooped his head under the hot rush, his eyes trailed down his body. His left foot had a swollen toe that had ached since yesterday―pretty sure it was broken. Both feet had ballooned in size from the strain of walking so much. He spotted a bruise at his ankle that he didn't remember. Cuts from brambles worked their way up his legs, scabbing and bleeding. The most immediately source of agony was his right hip, where he had fallen earlier that evening; a wide circle of flesh there had turned blotchy black and blue, and sent waves of pain through him when he tried to rest on it.

But Guzma had learned: he knew what it meant, to feel pain and power through it. He pinned his hands to the slick tile wall, focused on the soothing heat spilling down his shoulders, and steadied, slowed, deepened his breathing.

The pain rises―he beats it back―crushes it between his thoughts, his dreams, his monomania. All that he envisions in the black of his suffering is brightness, pure and delicious, and oh-so-close that he can taste it. He couldn't tell whether it was caused by the tortuous spasms, or by the throbbings of greed, but there, in the shower, he drooled.

* * *

...

"Kid."

...Guzma heard Nanu snapping his fingers.

"Kid, hey. Wake up."

…

" _Sleeping beauty_. Time to go."

"Who you callin'―" Guzma jerked suddenly, his eyes falling open. He found himself sprawled out over the couch in the waiting area of the station, weighed down from the pressure of sleep―and a Meowth that had claimed one of his legs. "―What? Uhh." He slapped a hand over his face. The last thing he remembered was sitting down on this couch to put on his boots. The cushions had sank warmly―he leaned back for only a second, and his head had felt impossibly heavy…

Nanu stood over him, looking mightily irritated. He had coffee in his hand and an unlit cigarette behind his ear. He was also dressed in his typical uniform again. "Don't you have places to be?"

"...What time is it?"

"It's morning. Early."

Morning? Guzma's temper flared; he looked out the window and saw, indeed, it was a regular cloudy, murky Po Town sunrise. He struggled to sit up, kicking off the Meowth as he did. "Man, why didn't you wake me?"

"Out." Nanu pointed to the door.

"Ugh, what, did you watch me sleep, or something, you weirdo?"

Nanu repeated himself with more emphasis. " _Out_."

Fuming, but feeling remarkably well-rested, Guzma pulled himself up the rest of the way, pulled his backpack to his side, and grappled with his still-moist socks and boots

Nanu, slurping his coffee and casually studying Guzma fitting back into his shoes, decided to extend one polite gesture. "You want any coffee for the road?"

"Nah," he said. He eyed the cigarette behind Nanu's ear. "I'd kill for a cigarette, though."

"They're bad for you," Nanu told him half-heartedly, transparently trying to make an excuse for not bumming him one.

"Whatta you, my dad?"

Nanu fumed. "If I were your father―!" He choked down some words he might regret―Nanu knew enough about the kid to not go down that road―and grumbled something as he tapped out another cigarette from his pocket. "Outside," he said, moving for the door. "Acerola hates the smell."

* * *

The rain had started again, mostly in the form of misty droplets being tossed around in the morning breeze. Moisture dropped from the overhang out by Nanu's front step, so the kahuna leaned against the door to light his cigarette. He also lit and handed over a cigarette to Guzma, who seated himself on the steps.

It was too early in the morning for anyone to come by―Team Skull, even the more responsible ones, wouldn't be rolling out of bed for a few more hours. So Guzma felt safe enough to spend a minute or two relieving his nic-fit, sucking in the blissfully warm smoke and watching it pour out from his lungs.

They didn't talk for a while, but Nanu eventually did gesture to his backpack. "So… They're all in there, huh."

Guzma avoided answering, but adjusted it with his elbow.

"That's a lot of power for one person."

Guzma huffed out some smoke and spat. "You think I can't handle it?"

"I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Someone's liable to get hurt either way." Nanu stopped for a second, like he wanted to say something else. He weighed his options, and shook his head, dismissing one thought in exchange for another. "Y'know―" He scratched his chest. "I shouldn't be telling you this― Interpol's stopped by before. You really shouldn't hang around."

"...What, you think they know…"

"Kid, Interpol might be a buncha idiots, but they're not that thick. You want some advice?"

"Advice?"

"If it comes down to it―you should talk to Looker. He's one of the agents sniffing around―me and him, we go way back, got history―anyway, he's a big softie, he'd probably hear you out."

Guzma scoffed and sneered, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. "What? I ain't talking to your crusty old boyfriend!"

Nanu heaved a ragged sigh, fighting the impulse to smack him upside the head. "Boy, do you ever listen to the nonsense that comes outta your mouth?"

Guzma puffed on his cigarette again, looking pleased to have riled and offended him.

"Just saying, kid―in the end, if things go south, you might not have a choice."

Guzma didn't know what to say at such a blatant show of concern. He shook it off. "Doesn't matter. I'm almost done, anyway."

"And when you're done? What's the plan? World domination?"

For a flash of a moment, Guzma, facing Nanu, looks like himself again; he grins nastily from ear-to-ear. "Somethin' like that." He hoisted himself back onto his feet, puffed a few more times on his cigarette, then decided to continue nursing it, hanging it from his lip. "Better go. Thanks for the smoke."

"Thank me when the lung cancer kicks in."

"Tch." Guzma sucked his teeth at him, trying to sound annoyed, but suddenly smirked and let out a cackle. "You're OG, gramps. I oughtta stop by more often."

"I don't know what that means, and no, you shouldn't."

Finally, Guzma went. Nanu watched for a little while as he finished his cigarette; he noted vaguely that the kid was limping but trying to hide it. Guzma wandered up a beaten path, cut through some brush, and disappeared.


	7. Eschatology

**Chapter 7: Eschatology**

It was the end of the world, Kahuna Nanu thought. The apocalypse. The final call. And he felt _fine_.

Funnily enough, no one seemed to notice. As he arrived in Malie, stretching his legs out on the street, pounding pavement under the glitz of city lights, he could find no sign of unease. Shops remained open and beaming with light. Pedestrians carried grocery bags and tugged their children along by the hand. Couples clustered near the malasada shop and workers passed out coupons to anyone willing to take them. The city had its regular, low-toned bustle that defined its weeknights.

Most citizens of Ula'Ula knew better than to harass him with or for attention, but he always allowed them the politeness of a nod, should they nod at him first. Tonight, the greetings came freely from a variety of ages; some older folk, closer to his generation, felt free to verbalize their greetings. Tonight, Tai, the old man who ran the umbrella-shop, was resting on a stool, almost dozing off, when he lifted his head and hand to say, "Evening, Kahuna."

He stopped for a half-beat to raise a hand back. "Evening, Tai."

"Nice night."

"Could be worse."

Tai dipped his head again and snored.

Thank God. That was dangerously close to turning into a conversation.

As he walked toward High Sushi Roller for his bi-, sometimes tri-weekly dinner, he walked past the fresh wounds of recent public trauma: where the rampaging beasts cut and slashed their way through, knocking a light-pole into the heart of the library. The workers still had the hole covered in heavy tarp; Acerola, poor thing, was devastated when she found out. Fortunately, the path of damage hadn't gotten very far before Tapu Bulu, roused in rare form, chased the creatures far into the mountains.

But that had been weeks ago; things had been deathly quiet for a while. Nanu kept his ear to the ground, scrolling through newscasts, bouncing around sites and chat rooms. The media frenzy had evaporated virtually overnight―the beasts, the hunter, the police activity, all of it. Blips of rumors surfaced once in awhile, but each withered and died within hours, unable to sustain strength. Days passed. Nothing. Crickets. In the quiet and the peace, perhaps the people had deluded themselves into breathing easier, like the crisis had ended.

But Nanu knew and understood its meaning. He had lived long enough to know the sound and smell of the calm before a storm. This, though, was not the wrath of an angered Tapu spirit, like the one that had long ago smashed his island into remnants of itself. No, this was worse. It would be the wrath of a human being: a young and angry man with daddy issues up the wazoo, clinging to a bag full of nuclear power he couldn't begin to fathom.

Ah, they were delightfully screwed.

Nanu actually whistled to himself as he walked down the sidewalk, causing passers-by to turn and stare.

* * *

"Ah, welcome back, Master Nanu."

Sensei, standing at the front of house, looked chipper as ever, peering over the shoulder of an older customer. He appeared to be helping the old man make a selection from the menu.

"Evening, Sensei. It'll be my usual."

"Yes―just a moment."

Nanu settled in patiently behind the customer ahead of him, letting himself space out. The restaurant was pretty quiet tonight. He spotted a couple feeding each other nigiri, and the usual cluster of old men who regularly nabbed the corner table to drink sake, eat hot pot, and natter on all night.

The customer ahead of him was taking too long, and it started to bother him. He finally poked the man in the shoulder to get his attention. "Hey, pal."

The man looked up at him.

"You oughtta try the Kaiseki set. Good value."

The man fixed his glasses and smiled politely. "Ah. Thank you." He didn't say he was taking Nanu's advice, however, and turned to ask Sensei another series of over-particular questions about the dishes.

Nanu almost truly lost his patience, but as he listened and watched the customer, something…

...

Nanu, bothered, approached again and nudged him in the shoulder. "Hey, grandpa―never seen you around before."

"Oh―no―I came here today with a tour group."

Nanu studied him for a long second, eyebrows heavily furrowed. Suddenly, he turned to speak to the waiter. "Sensei. We'll be dining together." He looked back at the old man. "C'mon, I'm buying."

The old man struggled with his glasses, squinting through them. "Do I know you…?"

"Best seat in the house is this way."

Without anymore protest, the man followed him to the table Sensei reserved for the kahuna. Nanu order two Kaiseki sets and settled into his usual spot. It was only when the tourist sat down, too, that his guest started to ramble again. "I've heard Ula'Ula was a hospitable place, but I didn't expect―"

"You can drop it now," Nanu says. " _Agent Looker_."

* * *

Nanu would have liked to ask Looker why he wore a disguise on his way out to eat, but Nanu had given up years ago on asking Looker why he did things.

Evidently, Looker had also given up on questioning Nanu's ability to see through his disguises so quickly. Just as well. If asked, Nanu wouldn't have much of an answer: it was an art, more than it was a science.

Once Looker stood up and whipped his disguise off, peeling prosthetics with a flash of a gesture, and throwing off clothes to reveal his typical overcoat, the agent seated himself, beamed at him, and said, "Much better. Shall we feast then, Zero?"

Always with the hokey flair. Always with the flowing overcoat, the windswept hair, the sharp and calculating face that never seemed to change through the years. He had a presence that could draw all attention to him; to be around Looker, no matter the context, was to be outshined by him.

Nanu sighed deeply. "I suppose."

When Looker was first assigned as his subordinate in the developing UB-extraction team, he genuinely thought this scruffy detective was playing some sort of practical joke on him with his antics. No one who worked for the International Police could, he thought, could possibly be such a dopey, pure, bright-eyed ball of fluff. It had to be a schtick―some sort of gag. Or worse, a veneer meant to disguise some horrendous corruption. He couldn't trust the guy, not for months.

However, despite Nanu's misgivings, Looker turned out to be "that way" through-and-through. Some days, Nanu wondered if he wouldn't have _rather_ had Looker be a two-faced snake; he was so insufferably idealistic. Where Nanu's judgments fell on the cynical side, Looker took everything and everyone at face value, and most infuriatingly, sometimes―maybe a lot of the time―Looker was _right_. Nanu figured whoever decided on their assignment was a little too obsessed with the good-cop-bad-cop routine, because that was literally how almost every mission went: Nanu growling and bashing heads, and Looker handing out platitudes and promises.

Nanu couldn't say he liked the guy. He saved himself from a lot of headaches by leaving Interpol, and Looker was no small part in said headaches.

But Looker, he decided, deserved respect, even if it had be begrudged. Looker was a good man. Something Nanu knew he never had been, and suspected he never would be.

 _Anyway. Enough sap_.

Food was being served, and he wasted no time picking up his chopsticks and going to town. He was hungry, after all.

Looker, a proper man after all, followed his lead. They ate in silence for some minutes before Looker started their conversation, resting his utensils on his dish to signal his intention to talk.

"It's good to see you again. Our last meeting was far too brief. How do things fare on your side of the island?"

"Same as last week."

Looker, evidently remembering the condition of Nanu's living space, shut his eyes with great contemplation. "I still wonder why you insist on residing among criminals."

"It's complicated."

Nanu meant that to mean _butt out_ , but naturally, Looker couldn't help himself but ponder and rub his chin. He theorized aloud. "Unless… Ah, I understand now. How noble of you! You are doing good work, taking these idle youths under your watch, encouraging them to stay on the straight and narrow!"

"Uh, yeah." Nanu resisted rolling his eyes. How had he forgotten about Looker's fetish for lecturing ruffians? Hardly a day could pass on the job without Looker spotting some jobless slouch on a street corner, and delivering to them some impassioned speech about 'contributing to society' or some hoo-hah. Nanu lied to appease him. "That's… mostly what I do. So. Where's Anabel?"

"She is currently in talks with Headquarters. She gave me permission to take leave for the evening."

"Nice of her." It wasn't something Nanu would have ever done. If he had to suffer through some ungodly bigwig meeting, he would demand his misery be accompanied. "Didn't expect to still see you here. Woulda thought you moved on by now. Seeing as the case is closed."

"Hardly, my friend. Though it seems the beasts have disappeared entirely, there are still many unanswered questions. Primarily about our…" Looker tapped the side of his nose. "Mutual friend."

Nanu was baffled at first by the gesture, before vaguely remembering seeing it in a Unovian detective thriller once (was it a regional thing? Looker had probably spent some time there); then he was baffled by the phrase 'mutual friend.' "Who?"

"This Guzma character. His trail has gone cold and he has not been sighted for some time. I can only hope some terrible fate has not befallen him."

Nanu thought on it, but eventually shrugged. "Maybe they beamed him up to his home planet," he suggested dryly, stuffing a tuna roll into his mouth.

"I have investigated those rumors, and to the contrary, Zero, I have not found any evidence that he is extra-terrestrial."

"...Hmm." (Looker was nothing if not obsessively thorough.) "You know you can just call me Nanu."

"Ah, yes. Kahuna Nanu."

"Don't need stuffy honorifics, neither."

Looker fidgeted with his hands, like he wanted to argue, but reluctantly agreed to his terms. "Very well. Nanu. I would like to know what you think."

"Think?" Nanu shook his head. "I'm retired. I'll leave the investigating to you."

"Pretend if you must, but the blood of a hard-boiled detective still flows through your veins, does it not?"

"...Oh, lord." Here comes the headache. "Spare me the poetics, huh? Look, he's probably dead in a ditch, like you said."

"Do you believe that?"

"What's it matter, what I believe? Won't make him less dead. Or deader."

Looker tightened his expression and looked out the window, eyes piercing into the glow of the moon. "I don't believe that he is dead," Looker proclaimed. He seemed certain. "I believe he has captured all of the beasts himself. Furthermore, I think the question of his location can be answered… And the answer lies at Aether Paradise."

"Huh."

Looker didn't choose to elaborate on his conspiracy theory. Instead, he folded his arms and marveled aloud. "It truly is stunning… That such a young trainer on his own could accomplish this feat, all while evading our capture. To think that such a criminal mastermind has been living on this island―"

Nanu choked, coughed, slapped the table, and once he managed to swallow the lodged morsel, burst into harsh laughter. This reaction surprised not only Looker, but all the customers within range, causing the whole restaurant to turn and gawk. Nanu, either oblivious or unconcerned, did not bother getting a hold of himself; he wheezed, snorted, snickered, swore, and eventually had to wipe away tears. Upon seeing Looker's shocked expression, he nearly buckled over again.

This all went on for a little too long.

"All right, all right," Nanu finally gasped, grinning and still bouncing his shoulders with repressed cackling. He pounded his chest to recover his breath. "That tears it. I'm getting drunk. Sensei! Bring us a bottle of sake, won't you?"

* * *

Though Nanu shared the bottle of warm sake over the next hour and ensured Looker's cup was consistently filled, the bottle was really for himself. Looker never got drunk, anyway: too straight-laced for that. The best Nanu could ever hope to do was get him tipsy.

But how could Nanu not drink―not drown his nihilism and his growing realization that life was a cosmic joke at his expense?

He downed it. Looker slowly sipped at it, savoring its flavor. Rinse, repeat―until Nanu had drank most of the bottle, and Looker still nursed his first cup.

After everything…

After all that the beasts had cost him… Cost _them_ … Cost _her_...

When the sake finally reached his head, flushing him and warming him, Nanu released a small, self-deprecating chuckle. He smirked, like he had an especially cruel thought occur to him. "Don't get me wrong, Looker," he finally said. "I admire the kid's moxie―he's maybe a little wilier than I woulda thought―but he's got tech that we didn't. He had the means handed to him on a silver platter." A frown crept over his expression, darkening and bittering his words. "Mastermind, my foot. That's plain, dumb luck."

(Cripes. Thought he could keep a lid on that―thought he could keep that particular wound from flaring up. Shows what he knows.)

Looker noticed the thread of suppressed pain in him, but mercifully chose not to comment on it. He did, however, finish his cup of sake.

* * *

By the time he paid the bill and they left the eatery together, Nanu was beginning to realize that getting drunk hadn't helped. To be fair, it usually didn't, but he always fooled himself into thinking it would. He was that sort of man: the sort who repeated mistakes ad infinitum. A gambler telling himself: _well, this time..._

He couldn't walk straight. He plumb forgot about the downward step right outside the main door, nearly leading him to trip face-first into concrete. Looker nabbed him in time but had a characteristic freak out over it.

"Please!" The agent fretted as he dusted him off. "You must be more careful."

Nanu growled, swatted his hands away, and told him where he could go.

It had gotten late. Most of the foot traffic disappeared, and various shops already shut up for the night. For a time, the two did not fill the silence, instead standing some distance from each other, their shadows cast long into the street. Nanu was jonesing for a cigarette, so he pulled one out, fumbled with his lighter, and managed to light it (and not himself).

After puffing for a few minutes, he glanced over at Looker. The agent hadn't lectured him about his habit, which was unusual―he normally gave at least a mini-sermon―so Nanu thought something must be up. Sure enough, Looker was distracted, hands deep in his pockets, eyes tracing the cold stare of stars.

When you work with someone long enough and endure the right kinds of hurts together, language can become almost obsolete. You can learn to say things to one another without speaking; you can know exactly what the other is thinking, and know what they need to hear. It was a bond that Nanu took too long to understand; he had long mistaken it for awkwardness or emptiness, those long nights of sitting together, drinking and saying nothing.

Tonight, though, Nanu understands it, because he sees Looker gazing at the night sky, and he knows exactly what's going through his head. He wanted to ignore it and part ways, but it tore him deep, because he was thinking about it, too. Eventually, he couldn't stand it any longer. "Looker."

"Yes?"

"I was the lead agent. It was my call. My responsibility. Period."

And there it was: devoid of all context, specifics, names, anything―and Looker could parse the words like they were a shared secret code. Of the many ways Looker could have responded, he opted out of the obvious ones: the reassurance, the consolation, the gratitude, the apology, the extension of empathy. Some process, which Nanu often imagined as mechanical, ran through Looker's brain, leaving him with an empty stare for a long, impossibly difficult moment. Then, suddenly, he bowed to him, formal Kantonese style. "I understand," he said.

Nanu felt gratitude swell up in him; it made him stupid. "You're… you're good people, Looker," he slurred, regretting it as soon as he said it. Looker straightened, about to respond, but Nanu cut him off. "Now, don't get all gushy on me. You know I'm drunk."

But Looker smiled and folded his arms, striking his usual, over-earnest pose with a hand to his chin. "Anabel has put in a request for the both of us to receive paid leave upon the conclusion of this case. Perhaps I will take time to enjoy the cuisine of these fine islands. And in that case―I hope, dear friend, that we can dine together again."

Nanu shrugged crookedly. "Whatever. You better pay next time, though."

Nanu released his Persian, who released throaty, happy yowls and bumped hard into his uneasy legs and hip. He leaned against her, gripping the nape at her neck, and started walking.

"Well, see ya."

Looker watched, but was alarmed to see him still stumbling in a drunken stupor. "Should I accompany you on your way home?"

"Nah," Nanu dismissed, "Princess here will get me where I need to be." He patted his Persian firmly on its shoulder and briefly dug his fingers into its forehead for a deep scratch. "She's used to it. Aren't you, girl?"

"I see." Looker turned the other direction, struggling with closure, eventually finding his words enough to say, "Good night... Nanu."

* * *

As Nanu walked away, past the malasada shop and the crippled library, past the avenues, past the fields, and into the pathways that cut through the mountains, winding like a serpent's tail in the blue and blessed dark, he thought about his own brittleness and the tiny morsels of happiness that he used to grasp for.

He knew, one day, he would have to pay for what he had done in the past. He didn't look forward to it. But even he had to laugh, marvel, and anticipate the day everything would be made right, when justice cracked down on their heads, bloodying them and opening their eyes.

Served them right.

Served them _all_ right.


	8. Tributary

**Chapter 8: Tributary**

At Aether Paradise, in the bowels of the security room, an employee twitched.

He could be forgiven by even the upper-ups for napping on the job. At this point, the room filled with an array of screens and buttons was only occupied by rotating employees to make sure it didn't collect dust. As such, most would wander in, wipe down the crumbs and litter of the previous shift, and kick up their feet.

After all, there wasn't much to watch. The employees had strict orders to never leave the artificial island. The doors had shut and locked down, refusing any visitors. The executives had holed up in their places, nervously diving into their respective studies. Rumors floated on the fate of Madame President, who, since the day the chopper arrived to deliver her, had not emerged from her bedroom. But with time, the sense of drama and upheaval left, leaving instead a sense of desperate boredom. Days went by, and nothing happened. Then weeks. Had it been months yet? Some days, it felt like it.

With his feet resting on the security panel, it was a wonder he hadn't disrupted any of its features; he snored, tossed his head, and rolled a little. The wheels to the chair he sat in budged dangerously.

A motion detector light went on, letting out a small blip of noise. _Beep_.

He twitched again.

 _Beep. Beep_.

With one more adjustment in his sleep, the chair rolled out, and the weight of his body, stretched between it and the panel, became too great. He began to slip.

 _Beep_.

He fell, and the force of falling woke him up with a wild jerk. He yelled and hit the floor hard, crashing the chair over, leaving its wheels spinning mid-air. For the next minute or so, he remained so shocked and hurt by the fall that he continued to not hear the motion sensor's complaints. He groaned, rubbed his head, and slowly worked his way to his feet. "Augh." Huffing, he blinked the stars out of his eyes and plucked the chair from the floor. At least no one was here to witness his clumsiness.

 _Beep. Beep_.

At last, the nagging noise caught his attention.

"...What?"

His training fled his brain for a moment, leaving him stumped as to what could be causing the alert, but as he shook the sleep off, he recognized it for what it was.

"...Where...?"

Sighing and irritated, he strained his eyes against the various screens. The sensor was informing him of movement on the docks. That didn't seem right. But he looked, and sure enough, there was a blurry spot parked on the water. He gave it a look and had to conclude it was a boat.

The only boat that had any business docking was the supply boat, which arrived only on Monday. It wasn't Monday―he knew that, and even confirmed it by clicking away on his transceiver.

"Crap." He picked up the security headset. "Had to happen on my shift." After quickly fiddling with it, he radioed it in. "Uh, hello? This is Pau, down in security―I'm seeing a sign of life at the docks. Anybody copy? Over."

He waited. Radio silence. Everyone was probably on lunch break.

"Hello?" He fell back into the chair and spun himself around in a slow circle, over-pronouncing and sighing. "Any-bo-dy at-all?"

Just when he felt ready to give up and look himself, a light voice broke the quiet. "This is Kairi, I copy. What do you see? Over."

He squinted at the screen a little more carefully, trying to ensure he didn't miss any crucial details. "A boat―looks small, maybe a fishing trawler? Over."

"I'll check it out. I'm near there." He hears the tiredness in her voice and can sympathize. "Somebody probably just got turned around. Over."

"Yeah, probably. Thanks. Over."

 _Well, crisis averted!_ The employee yawned, removed the headset, stretched his legs, and folded his hands across his chest to settle in for a well-deserved snooze.

* * *

Kairi, after swiping her key card and riding the elevator down to the docking area, only vaguely thought about getting someone to tag along. Every other day, they received lectures about the unnamed danger that lurked outside Aether Paradise―some force that the executives refused to identify, but were quick to describe as imminent and deadly. By the time she reached the dock, though, the thought passed, and she saw the sad little trawler bobbing softly in the waters at the landing strip. It appeared well-used by someone, worn from age, incapable of doing anything other than dragging nets along the ocean floor, as it was designed.

The whole docking area remained creepily quiet.

"Hello?" She reached the boat, calling for its captain. "Do you need help? We're closed to visitors."

No answer.

Without thinking too much about it, she hopped aboard. There were ropes snaked along the floor, so she had to step carefully to reach the interior wheelhouse. Empty. Just when she decided the owner must have deboarded―to where? To wander about the warehouse?―she heard a small thump inside the closed door to the supply closet.

...Not nerve-wracking at all, no. She regretted, suddenly, not having a partner.

"Um… Hello?"

The thump went quiet and did not repeat itself. Was it a broom, falling over with the push of the last wave? That theory stuck to her, but her hand felt compelled anyway. She went over to it, ducking behind the surface of the door, and cracked it open.

A heavy-booted foot fumbled out; she screamed and jumped in surprise.

But the boot shuffled its way back, and she heard a sound inside matching her fear. Baffled, and overcoming her initial shock, she peeked inside to find an old man, a fisherman most likely, perhaps the owner of the boat. He crouched down in the closet, arms pinned over his head in a defensive posture.

"Uh―" Alarmed, she pulled the door open even further. "Sir?"

He yelped, looked at her in confusion―she could see his beard speckled with blood from a small cut at his cheek―and started shaking his head. He returned to fetal position.

"Please!" The man cowered and held out his hands. "He said he wouldn't hurt me if stayed in here, I―"

Dread swallowed her before he could finish stammering out his explanation. She whirled her head around, like a boogeyman had leaped from her psyche, scurrying and baring its teeth at her. As her heart raced, she had the cognizance to shakily reach for her radio―she stumbled out of the wheelhouse, ready to deboard and run for the elevator. How much time did she have? She twisted the channel selector and pressed down the call button, her other hand taking hold of the railing so that she might hop over it.

Hysterically, she cried out. "This is Kairi! We've got a situation down here! Someone's―"

Before she could finish, a body launched against her, knocking the wind out of her. She hurtled forward, landing her chest hard on onto the boat's railing; she still gripped the radio, but a hand, belonging to the heavy body crushing her, slapped it out of hers.

She looked down… Watched her radio tumble into the water and sink into the abyss…

An arm tightened around her neck until she could hardly breathe. She sensed, too, a knife pressing close to her throat.

Words growled in her ear, abrasive and raw.

"You move, you die."

* * *

Though she could not turn around to see, she felt the figure's heavy clothing, some kind of mask or face covering, and the hard rims of something over his eyes. She hadn't the faintest who it might be―but the person was tall, had the strength to snap her in two, and was breathing raggedly into her ear.

Once he had her in a headlock, though, he seemed to hesitate, as if not sure what to do next. Eventually he yanked her back, dragging her kicking and gasping across the deck of the boat, and after contemplating his next move, yelled hoarsely. "Anybody else comin'?" When she heaved, struggling to get words out, he kicked at her leg to elicit some motivational pain. He yelled even louder. "I said, anybody else comin'?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

Exasperated by the ambiguity of her answer, he twisted her around as he looked about the empty docking area. The knife danced in his left hand, exhibiting some nerves―she could see that the hand looked tender, vulnerable, perhaps even injured. Her thinking was interrupted by a firm shake. "Stop breathing so hard," the voice said, but this time it wasn't so threatening. It sounded young, male, and a little petulant, almost whiny.

"I would," she gasped, "if you'd let up."

He didn't fall for it. His grip stayed solid as before.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Shut up." He went silent, thinking again. "You gotta key card? Can it get you to the President?"

"The President?" Her head reeled. What did he want with Madame Lusamine? "No―no, my card wouldn't."

The man mulled this over, then shrewdly motioned for it. "Give it to me."

"I'm not lying! Only the execs have that access!"

The knife pressed just below her jawline, nicking her and causing her to squirm.

"Okay! Okay!" Her hands shaking, she pulled it from her pocket and held it out. He snatched it, or tried to, because with her nerves and his overeagerness combined, it fell out of her hand and clacked onto the ground.

"Augh!" Again, the voice broke away from its intimidating tone, sounding more frustrated than anything. "Just―hold still a second―"

She felt him awkwardly kneeling down, the hilt of the knife in his left hand pressing against her chest, his other arm unwinding from her throat to grab the card from the floor. Though she initially obeyed his order, her eyes on the blade and all of the threat it implied, a rush of survival instinct caused her to jerk forward in an attempt to fully throw him off.

He stumbled―cursed―the knife, wildly out of control, sliced down on her arm as she bolted forward. She let out a scream, clutching the wound as blood splashed over her uniform. In her flailing, she tripped over a rope on the deck and ended up on the floor.

The man shook in panic. "Crap! I― I didn't mean―" He pounced, grabbed her by the leg, and shouted at her accusingly. "I told you to hold still!"

"Let go of me!" She struggled, pulling on her captured limb. Oh god, there was blood everywhere―vibrant against her white clothes―pain radiated up through her shoulder and neck. Her voice strained with terror and desperation. "You have what you want!"

He looked down… Saw the key card safely in his hand… Then shook his head with a swelling of determination. "Get up!" With that, he dug his fingers into the back of her uniform and wrenched her upright, over the sounds of her moaning. "You're comin' with me!"

* * *

Guzma didn't―exactly―have a plan.

He had a _goal_ in mind. A clear, one-word goal that had supplanted all other thoughts in him, overtaking his hunger, his fatigue, his broken wrist and cracked rib, his difficulty seeing straight:

Lusamine.

His memory of her now felt loose and suggestive, like a memory from childhood. The edges of her blurred. The substance of her morphed, exaggerated. She had become, in his isolation and madness, like a religion to him―an abstract that he could die for―or perhaps kill for.

With these things stickied in the forefront of his mind, it became easy to disregard the agony and throes of the young, bleeding woman he shoved around. He didn't know who she was―doubted he'd ever found out―but her pleas for mercy buzzed mosquito-like in his ear, an annoyance, that was all. The first real flesh wound was an accident. But if she ran, he couldn't say for sure the next one would be.

She was stalling on their way to the elevator. He let his impatience get the better of him; he kicked her ankle and gruffed. "Keep goin'!"

The kick tripped her up, but he yanked on her to keep her balanced. The pull must have put pressure on her sliced arm, because she whimpered and clutched it.

No sympathy warmed him. His voice cut, spat at her. "Move!"

Once they reached the elevator, her pleading had stopped and gone strangely quiet. Maybe it was the blood loss, or resignation; either way he didn't care, he was just glad to be rid of her noise. He pinned her against the elevator railing for a moment as he dug through his pocket for the key card. He fumbled with his hands―trying to juggle his grip on her, his grip on the now-glistening knife, and the card he tried to swipe into the panel. Holding the knife and the card in his left hand proved too clumsy, so he jerked her forcefully, looped his right arm about her tiny waist, and made the keycard swap hands. She still breathed hard, air filling her stomach and making her sort of bob as she slumped limply over his forearm. Finally, he got frustrated enough to give her the card and demand, "Swipe it."

Had she passed out? He almost thought so. But after a second, she managed to take the card, smearing blood on it―that's when he noticed how much there was, how much of it had slathered over his left hand and both of hers―and gave it a practiced, even swipe.

The panel beeped affirmatively and he swung her back again. He puzzled over the buttons and made his final selection.

Quiet. Quiet. Just her breathing. He half-expected to hear alarms by now, the sound of rushing feet. But there was nothing but the mechanical whir of the elevator shaft opening, and the rise of the platform.

They were on their way to the next floor. The elevator darkened slightly as it swooped into the dim shaft.

Both of them stood still.

The next step in Guzma's plan spontaneously materialized. Almost apologetically, he twisted his arm back to around her throat, returning her to a headlock.

She must have been waiting for some kind of direction or order, but he didn't give her one. It frightened her. For that few series of seconds that passed between one floor and another, she began shaking.

"My name's Kairi," she said suddenly. Her voice tremored, and it sounded weak.

 _Buzz-buzz-buzz_.

"Please don't kill me."

He could have reassured her. But instead he hissed at her, pushing at her throat again. His voice popped with tension. " _Shut up_."

* * *

When he reached the main floor, before the reception desk and ahead of the entrance to the greenhouse and habitat area, he anticipated more activity than there was. He had a memory of the place when it still bustled and moved: there would be workers up front, secretaries running about, volunteers carrying supplies. But now the floor opened up to him, barren and silent. He spotted only a single employee, sitting in the reception area, browsing through a computer screen and paying little attention.

This wouldn't do.

He panted, looked around in confusion, then hoisted the woman forward, directing her to the desk. It wasn't until they staggered clumsily within a few yards of it that the worker noticed their approach. He saw the young man's face―it took some time before the man realized what he was seeing and was able to process it, so that by the time fear overtook his face, Guzma had already collided the bleeding woman with the desk. She gasped but lay still, her face pressed on the cool white countertop.

The worker scrambled to his feet, gawked, and looked ready to run.

"I want the President!" He pointed impatiently at the phone sitting at the man's right. "Call it in!"

The worker was still white-faced, frozen in shock.

Guzma slammed his fist into the countertop, rattling it with a bang. He screamed as hard and as persuasively as he could, waving the bloodied knife around and pressing his elbow into the woman's back, ignoring her renewed whimpering. "Call it in, now! Or I slice her to ribbons! Got it!?"

At last, the worker animated, but not in the way he wanted; the young man panicked at the sight of her blood-soaked sleeve. "Kairi―oh god, oh god, are you okay? Are you―"

"Hey! You deaf or somethin'!?" With his long body, Guzma was able to leverage himself over the counter and snag the worker's shirt, the knife dangerously poking into the folds of his uniform. "Call before I stick you, too!" He quickly let go, snorting to himself. "Geez, a little professionalism, huh!?"

The call was made―shakily, hastily―and he rested his weight on the counter while he waited for the sounds of the building's panic to roll in. Thankfully, neither employee currently at his mercy tried to make conversation, even when time crawled, so each of them slumped in their own way, waiting with bated breath. Guzma, after a while, fidgeted with his feet and tried to wipe the gummed, sticky remnants of blood from his left hand.

There was a sound of feet―fast, thumping, rhythmic, almost military. It rumbled far off at first, from the west wing of the building, but grew rapidly louder and closer.

The automatic metal door clicked and slid open, allowing some white-coats to stream into the room.

The small group flanked the west hallway entrance; some of them held weapons, to his surprise. They must have beefed up security since he had left. An older white-coat in the center of them stepped forward, barking orders. At his command, the guns raised, and he set his eyes on Guzma. "You! Hands in the air!"

But Guzma pushed himself up from the counter, looked each of them over carefully, and yelled hotly when he realized they were all bottom-rung flunkies. "I ain't talkin' to none of you! I want one o' your bosses!"

They didn't budge. The leader barked again. "Hands! In the air!"

A weary, insane smile broke over his lips. _Fine. Let's play, then._

Pulling up and ducking behind his bleeding hostage, he hopped the counter, crashed into the floor―near the other scrambling employee―and dug into his bag, withdrawing several beast balls.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The male employee flailed helplessly, trying to get out of the line of fire.

With nothing else holding him back, Guzma flung all of the balls out into the room. All the anger spilled from his voice in a horrible rise of a grating roar. "Go! Tear this joint up! CRUSH ALL OF 'EM!"

* * *

He ran and was quickly lost in the deafening noise―the noise of screaming, monsters gleeful in their havoc, the facility being shredded in a whirlwind of glass, metal, and electrical components. One of his beasts―Buzzwole, he thinks―hurtled itself into some equipment, sending a shower of sparks in every direction; Xurkitree squealed in the excitement of so much energy, spewing bolts, blackening and scorching the walls. Fire immediately broke out, spewing black and suffocating smoke into every corner of the room.

Pheromosa… Lady… (His totem… His object of veneration, his idol, his icon, his divine promise). Haloed and alight, she appeared to him briefly, looked at him, then scurried back into the din.

Within seconds, he stumbled―tried to figure out where he was in all the confusion, bumping into countertops, railings, and running gunmen―and it became impossible to see in the flashes of light and churning smoke, so he had to feel along the wall with his fingers, all while struggling to breathe.

Once he reached a doorway to an adjoining hall, he heard an eruption of even more noise in the form of cracking gunfire, some of it dizzyingly close to his head. The beasts, the bullets' primary targets, only seemed to smash with more ferocity upon taking fire. The smoke finally set off the fire alarms, kicking in an ear-splitting screeching that made him cringe, trip over something large and cumbersome, and clutch his head.

For a while―it felt like an eternity―Guzma stayed there, bracing his ears, feeling the shuddering and breaking of everything beat right into his chest like a frenzied drum.

Guzma couldn't hear it, but Faba's voice pierced the air with a high-strung scream at the men. "Put your weapons down, you idiots! Do you want to get us all killed?" He followed up with an infuriated, "Would _somebody_ turn off that racket?"

* * *

When the alarm buzzer stopped, replaced with the relaxed hiss of the awakened sprinkler system, it brought with it a strange silence. The beasts, momentarily startled by the quiet and the shower of water coming from the ceiling, stopped to shake themselves and dig around aimlessly in the rubble.

"Mr. Guzma." He walked out into the misty, moist floor, hands up to signify his intentions. His voice rang out clearly, devoid of the terror that had gripped the room only moments before. "It is I, Faba―the Branch Chief. We've been expecting you for some time. I see you have decided to make a strong opening position. Very well. Come out, and we'll negotiate."

Guzma unwrapped his arms from his head, looked about himself, and found that he had landed behind an overturned medical trolley in the eastern hallway. He had heard Faba's voice, yes, but it seemed to be far away, mixed with the dripping water. The smoke still made the room and the halls hazy, so he had to squint and strain his ringing ears to locate him.

"Mr. Guzma!"

...And Guzma limped back for the doorway, eventually emerging under the diffused light to see the white-coated man, attended closely by two guards.

Faba turned when he saw him. "Ah. There you are." He dropped his arms, preferring instead to fold them behind himself. He shot a glance over to the far end of the room, where beasts had already started digging into a wall, joyously shredding their electrical infrastructure. "Tsk-tsk. You've made quite a mess. Call them off so that we can talk." He noted the clothes Guzma wore. "And won't you remove that ridiculous costume? We know who you are."

Guzma knew Faba enough to realize this was his schtick: acting like he was in charge, like he had real authority. Rather than argue about it, Guzma decided to―as Faba would say―open negotiations. He peeled his goggles from his face, letting them clatter to the floor; he sniffed and uncovered his hair and face, breathing easier. God, that felt better. He coughed up some soot, shot Faba a glare, and pressed his fingers to his lips to blast a sharp whistle for the beasts' attention. Slowly, curiously, the three monsters craned their heads, considered the noise, and weighed it against the ecstasy of tearing the room to shreds.

They made their respective noises―screeches, hisses, shuffles, buzzes―and started pacing across the floor, obediently trailing toward their master.

Faba and his guards were quick to move out of the way.

"A'ight. We gotta bounce," Guzma told them as they drew closer. "I need y'all back right quick."

(Had he lost his already tenuous grasp on English, out there in the wilderness? Faba had to wonder.)

Guzma produced their balls and returned them, one-by-one.

In the ensuing quiet, Faba spent some time watching Guzma with a critical gaze. He eventually sneered. "How ungrateful you are." He shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. "After all Madame President has given you..."

"Tch! I don't owe you jack! I oughta sink this whole place!" Guzma frothed. "Would serve y'all right! You left me to die!"

"...That may be true," Faba said, his voice having not budged from its low, steady octave. "And I don't doubt you have the power to do as you suggest. But Mr. Guzma, there are also many workers here who had nothing to do with that. Such as the poor young woman you dragged in…"

"I don't wanna talk to you, anyway," Guzma spat. "I wanna talk to Miss L."

Faba frowned. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why not?!"

"She is not well."

"Look, beanpole―you wanna talk about not being well?" Guzma tugged at his shirt collar to show off the scar tissue still present about his neck. "With all that stuff the beast poisoned me with―it took me three days to wake up, but here I am! So what's her excuse?"

"Who's to say? I'm not her doctor. In any case. Whatever you have to say to her, surely you can say to me. I will relay whatever it is you please."

Guzma stormed over to him―he might have crashed into him completely, had Faba's guards not jumped forward to keep him from coming any closer. The boy towered over him, eyes drained, mouth foaming, hatred creasing his brow. "I could spill your guts in two seconds," Guzma said. "Relay _that_."

Faba, not impressed, grimaced at being so close to him. "Heavens. Living in the woods has not done you any favors. Let's walk and talk."

* * *

Faba did not exactly feel safe, even after negotiating the knife out of Guzma's possession and planting him in a chair across from his desk. The boy had calmed down considerably after sitting down, giving Faba time to take a handkerchief and dry himself off a little (the sprinklers were still doing their job by the time they left). Still, two guards stood ready at Faba's sides, and even more men stood right outside his office. Better safe than sorry.

When an attendant walked in with a tray of tea and watercress and cucumber sandwiches, Faba could not even finish gesturing at it and saying, "I suppose you must be hungry," before Guzma leapt up and wrested the plate of sandwiches into his hands. He plopped down into his chair again and proceeded to cram every bit into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed.

"Well, you must have…" Faba curled his lip as he watched Guzma wolf the food down. He waved for the attendant to pour some tea for them. "Interesting stories to tell."

Guzma said nothing, having already consumed half of the sandwiches. He chewed and sucked loudly, driving Faba to keep talking to distract himself from the irritating noise.

"It has been rather dull here, I'm afraid. We've tracked your movements for some time, but with the International Police sticking their nose into things, we decided not to risk extracting you." He stroked his beard. "Honestly, I think many of us assumed… The problem would resolve itself, so to speak."

Guzma did not catch on to his morbid implication. He grunted, swallowed the last sandwich, and twisted the plate about.

"We'll get you some more, if you like."

But Guzma shook his head. "Can I talk to Miss L now?"

"Mrs. Wicke is assessing the situation. We'll have to wait on her word."

Guzma frowned but accepted this reasoning. Once the tea was served, he slurped at it greedily, though he didn't appear to be enjoying the flavor very much.

"Isn't there anything you could discuss with me?" Faba eyed the backpack that Guzma had set next to his chair.

Guzma gave him an alien look and kicked the bag between his feet protectively. "I ain't got nothin' to say to you, four-eyes."

 _Rude little brute_. Faba started to hope he would get permission to throw the young man into an isolation chamber and shut off his air supply. It would save them all some headache.

But the phone call came in a timely fashion, and after a quick chat with the staff upstairs and Mrs. Wicke, Faba had an answer.

"It appears…" He shook his head in disbelief. "The queen has granted you an audience."

* * *

Once inside Lusamine's home, and before they arrived to her room, Guzma―a bit awkwardly―asked for the restroom.

Faba almost said something snide, but then he looked Guzma up and down―the blood smeared on his jacket and hands, the dirt on his face, the grunge… everywhere. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to clean up," he agreed. "The washroom is this way."

It felt right―to have a small bit of baptism before going in: pink water swirling down the drain, dirt blackening the ivory surface of the sink. He scrubbed his face for a while, then the back of his neck, then moistened his hair to pull it back. He dug some of the grit from under his overgrown fingernails, and had to gently wash about his left wrist, which was misshapen and still radiated horrible pain.

It then struck him how surreal it was, being here: all the weeks of waiting, of fighting, of dreaming for it… He had hardly slept a wink last night once he decided it was time. But now, it proved impossible to wrap his brain around the reality that he was at the end, and in a few short minutes, he would reach the crux.

As he felt water drip from his face, he almost changed his mind.

...But where would he go, if not here?

* * *

Guzma wanted to go into the room alone, but was eventually pressured into bringing a nurse along. For Lusamine's safety and well-being, they said. The nurse was small, and looked breakable, so he didn't argue very hard.

The door opened.

...Was this what death felt like? The aches and weights of your body rolling away, unveiling like trimmings falling and collecting at your feet; your eyes adjusting to the bright divinity beginning to bulge out before your vision, overtaking you; hearing soft music, smelling flowers? He almost tripped over himself on the way in, he was having such trouble collecting his wits.

The nurse hurried around him to reach the bed. The door shut behind him, sealing him in light.

There, Lusamine lay.

He thought there must be some mistake. This… object before him, that lay propped up against the headboard with a massive silk pillow, on a bed with a size meant to host marital bliss, draped under sheets and covers of fine and pure linens―this thing was not Lusamine. It looked more like a life-size porcelain doll, with flawless, snowy flesh, and none of the warmth or flushing that could come with a heartbeat. She was perfectly still, her shoulders relaxed, her arms posed and limp on her lap. Her golden hair was undone, with none of the shape that he had come to recognize in her―it fell flatly over her head, fanning out in thick, limp cords about the bed, and parted simply at the middle of her forehead. And her dress―like a doll's dress, sleeveless but laced at the breast, trimmed with the faintest golden color against her creamy skin.

Her eyes were closed and showed no signs of awareness.

Lusamine's nurse, though, approached and whispered into her ear, gently touching her arm as she did. "Madame. You have a visitor."

Slowly, like awakening from a deep sleep, she opened her glass-green eyes.

He stopped breathing. His body shrank. He became acutely aware of his battered, unclean, gaunt frame: he felt like a used cigarette about to be stomped under-heel.

Upon seeing him, her face hardened. She had only one name for him, which she uttered with the sharpness of a blade. " _Thief_."

All the words he had rehearsed tumbled out of his head. He tried anyway to stammer out his piece. "Miss L. I want to―"

"Be quiet." For such a weak voice, it sliced through him. When he trembled and obeyed, she looked to the nurse just as sharply. "You. Leave, now."

"But Madame―"

"I want us to be alone."

The nurse did as she was told; after hearing the door opening and shut again, Guzma could also hear the beginnings of panicked whispers outside in the hall.

" _You_."

Guzma felt as though a hand was wrapping about his throat. The bed seemed miles away from where he stood, and ever looming in size.

She struggled, her body quaking in her weakness; she managed to sit up only an inch before it appeared the last of her strength had been spent. Her words almost gurgled out of her, spewing like noxious venom over her crackling chokes for breath. "Was it not enough… For my children to betray me… And now you… Betray me… Steal from me…You've taken everything from me… I cannot say I am hurt… It is all I have known… To give my love freely, to see it squandered..." She swallowed hard to regain her breath. "So here I am… Weak and at your mercy… So what is it that you will do…?"

Guzma fell.

First, to his knees. It was almost unintentional at first; his legs folded in their exhaustion beneath him. But he had practiced, too―practiced precisely what he intended to do. He let his bag slide down from his shoulders, and he pushed it ahead of himself on the glossy tile. Then, before she ask what he was doing, he planted his hands down and pressed himself forward while still on his knees, until his forehead rested against the floor.

His voice strangled with supplication. "Please forgive me, Madame President!"

* * *

Guzma waited.

Lying prostrate on the floor was not the comfortable place for him. It put undue pressure on his sore knees, weight on his throbbing wrist, and tightened the already battered muscles of his back.

He waited some more.

What was taking her so long? She hadn't peeped. Hadn't even shuffled under her sheets. The silence got to him; he didn't want to break his kowtow yet, but being deprived a response felt unfair, cruel, even.

After enduring the silence as long as he could, he at last nervously lifted his head to get a reading of her expression. He found that she hadn't moved. Her expression had neither hardened nor softened―no, it had turned blank, and she stared at him with an intensity he'd never received from her before.

His stomach knotted. His mind spun. He thought he had screwed it up somehow. Perhaps the words hadn't come out right―they _sounded_ right, at the time he said them, but how could he be sure? Did she not understand him? Did she think he was making fun of her? Every possibility raced through his brain at light-speed, causing him to break into a feverish sweat.

Perhaps this all bore more explanation. He shakily pulled the bag towards him again, unzipping it and plucking some of the balls out with his hands, showing them to her. He felt like was explaining it to a child. "S-see? I have them here. Look. I caught them for you. So you can have them… You get it?"

Still, she stared at him.

"I just― I just wanted to make it right, ya know? I know it doesn't fix what I did, but maybe―"

Just when he averted his eyes to the floor in a surge of renewed shame, a thump startled him.

Lusamine was on the floor. Her nightgown, golden and draped about her slim form, trailed in a long, sweeping train behind her, tangling her bare legs as she began, very steadily, to crawl forward.

Guzma gaped in shock. It wasn't that he thought she had been faking, exactly, but he hadn't anticipated how real her physical weakness was, and to see her crawling over the floor made the man in him leap to her defense. "Ma'am! Oh, god, I'm sorry, I should have been closer, I― Are you okay? Let me help―!"

She ignored him. He couldn't get up quickly enough to attend to her, anyhow. She settled just feet from him, heaving heavy, determined breaths, and clawed the bag into her hands. In her wrenching, several balls fell clattering to the floor, but she didn't seem perturbed. Her eyes roamed over them, drinking them in like sweet wine. She reached in and brought them into her hands.

"S-so―" He sat up on his knees, watching her for a moment. Upon seeing her this close, he could see the discoloration in her, some evidence of a disease that had fed on her, gnawed on her beauty. "They're all there," he said. "I checked. I double-checked. It's all of them―"

She continued to pick each of them up, staring at them, shuffling through them.

"I―I don't know if― if it's enough, but I just― if you would give me, a second chance, I―"

With several balls cupped in her hands, she finally spoke. "My… Beasts…" She took them up against her. The way she breathed, pressed them against her breast… He felt heat rising from his throat to his face.

With a look of wonder and desperate need, she at last turned his eyes to him. "Will you… show one to me?"

He lunged forward excitably. "Y-yeah!" He would have jumped to his feet, but she still lingered on the floor, so he crawled on his hands and knees, shuffling himself over to the bag as it remained in her lap. He leaned over and began to look for an appropriate beast. "Here… Let me…"

Lusamine was so… Close to him, pawing at his shoulders, breathing down his neck as he fished through the bag. She was laughing a little, weakly, giggling like a child about to receive their long-awaited present. He tried to focus, but the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.

"...This one." He made his choice. "She's… I mean, I think you'll like her."

Pheromosa, upon release, gave Guzma her normally impenetrable gaze, but he could feel the squeeze of Lusamine's hand at his arm, and the touch made him interpret wildly: Lady looks, he thinks, like she belongs here, has always belonged here, in this delicate room of glimmering and pure things. The two of them sat there on the floor, breathless, admiring her where she stood.

Lusmine's breath quickened with anticipation; her hand squeezed him again. "May I touch her?"

"...Sure."

By then, there wasn't much strength left between the two of them, but Guzma summoned the last of his own to push them up, letting her lean on his shoulder. They took steps forward. The back of her hand slid against his palm; she was soft against the roughness of his callouses and scrapes. As he reached out with her, the sleeve of his jacket pulled back, revealing the shining gold watch at his bruised and swollen wrist.

How many countless nights had he lain there…? Hungry and cold, scraping at the bottom of the last of his spirit…? Wondering when he would taste food again...? Thinking that if he slept, he may not have the strength wake up…?

How long had he stared at it, and calculated how many meals it could have bought him…?

Pheromosa hesitated, but he pleaded so anxiously, so persistently and cloyingly, that finally, his Lady assented, and their fingers, mixed together, made contact with the pearly, smooth carapace of the beast's face.

He shut his eyes. Breath filled Lusamine's lungs in a sudden, shaken, climactic gasp.

"...She's… so beautiful… She's perfect."

Her lips just barely brushed his ear, and her whispers tickled him with hot, wet breath. He could not tell if it was on purpose, but it made him shiver and melt.

"Perfect… In every way I have ever dreamed…"


	9. Checkmate, Part 1: The Smothered King

**Chapter 9:**

Checkmate, Part 1: The Smothered King

* * *

It was precisely 9:45 in the morning when Lusamine called Guzma, startling him awake. Either he had completely slept through his alarm, or forgotten to set it; in either case, as he rolled stiffly about his oversized bed, colliding into something large, hard, and crustacean-like, he pondered, with his eyes shut, the consequence of ignoring the call.

"Ugh." His elbows pinched against the hard object. That better not be what he suspects it is. "Goli, I'm gonna kill ya."

The phone still rang. He groaned, blindly groped for it, and eventually pulled it to face. When he saw who it was, he cleared his throat, and tried to blink the grogginess out of himself. He answered. "Hello?"

"It's Madame Lusamine."

"Uh, yeah, I know." Sometimes, he forgot how old she was. "What's up?"

"I'm calling to remind you of your morning appointment."

Guzma shot up.

"I know it's not until 10 o' clock," she droned on, "but I did hope you'd aim to arrive early."

"Uh." He checked the time and muffled a curse. He muffled another curse when he turned his head the other way and saw Golisopod had indeed once more snuck into bed, chewing and shredding his bedsheets. The fat slob still slept, and didn't respond when he gave its shoulder armor a good whack with his fist. His anger made him hesitate for a second, before lying, "Yeah, I know―I'm coming down right now."

"...You sound like you're still in bed."

"I'm not!" _Technically_. He had just leaped out and untangled himself from his sheets. He pawed along the floor for his clothes, which he had slung somewhere. "I'll―be there, just gimme like a minute!"

Her voice turned cross. "'Like' a minute, or an actual minute?"

Guzma slapped a hand over his face and swallowed down a frustrated scream. She always _did_ that, always picked apart his careless measurements of time, always insisted on keeping schedules down to the millisecond. He calculated. " _Ten_ minutes, maybe fifteen."

"Ten minutes," she echoed, then hung up.

Once Guzma found his jeans and pulled them out from under his bed, he stood up to release his frustration by yelling at the still-slumbering Golisopod. "God! How many ways I gotta say it, huh? You can't do this no more!"

Golisopod wickered.

"Goli! I'm dead serious!" He tried to pull on the sheet to wrest it from his pokemon, but as he did, he found the edges had been completely shredded and stained with drool. _Again_. He snarled. "The maid's gonna replace 'em―and they charge me for that!"

Golisopod snored, snared the bed-sheet back into his claws, and began digging it against its body, nesting with it.

"Ugh! You're lucky I don't have time to pound you!"

* * *

In truth, he didn't have time to do much of anything. He wasn't looking to get lectured about tardiness this morning, so he threw whatever clothing he could find lying on the floor, wetted his fingers and slid them through his hair to calm his massive case of bed head, and trotted out into the main area of his suite.

Guzma's private suite, located at a generous three floors above the ocean in Aether Paradise, sometimes felt too large. It was a funny thing, thinking that―Guzma would have laughed the idea off weeks ago. Since when could having room be a bad thing? After living all of his life in cramped, shared spaces, it first felt freeing to live here, like he finally could breathe.

But on mornings like these, the place felt not only expansive, but empty.

It had all the amenities that qualified it as a high-class suite; it boasted a sleek, modern look of white tile and walls, a living space with furniture and a mounted widescreen television, a bedroom fitted with a king-sized bed and walk-in closet, a bathroom sporting the single largest jacuzzi tub he had ever seen, a serviceable kitchenette, and a wide balcony that overlooked the distant Alolan islands.

So, yes, it was big… But mostly empty floor-space, and features he hadn't gotten around to using yet. It also lacked personality―Guzma wasn't much of an interior decorator, even when left with a space of his own.

It didn't matter too much, he decided. It wasn't like he spent a lot of time here, anyway.

So he stuffed his feet into his white, oversized sneakers, and hurried out the door.

* * *

Guzma was maybe, _maybe_ , thirty seconds late arriving to the lab, and Lusamine already looked annoyed with him. She stood tall for her stature, her arms folded before her, her snowy dress fanning out. She looked ethereal and bright, making him feel more overshadowed than usual.

"Good morning," she said. She had the grace to not express her irritation in her greeting.

"...Morning."

"We missed you at breakfast this morning."

"Wasn't hungry," he said, avoiding her eyes. His current strategy was to hurry by her, hopefully enough to to throw her off. "We gettin' started, or what?"

* * *

The routine in the labs had been running for a while, enough that Guzma knew what to expect. This particular area was a testing lab; he could see Faba's back behind the dark-panelled glass that separated the room from the monitoring equipment inside, and could also see that the Branch Chief was plucking away at a computer and modelling some sort of calculation. Beyond the door, there would be also a larger, open space, where Guzma would assist in various tests of the beasts' anatomy, strength, and other attributes.

Normally, Faba would have preferred working on the beasts with only himself and a small team of scientists. However, after trying to work with the creatures only once, he had to relent and make Guzma a permanent element of the testing sessions. As a product of their training, which must have happened in complete isolation from other humans, the beasts acted extremely aggressive and hostile to the presence of anyone other than their owner. Not to say Guzma's control of the beasts was perfect; much like Guzma himself, the beasts were prone to violent and inexplicable outbursts. But eighty, maybe ninety-percent of the time, Guzma was able to maneuver them to the correct place, goad them into doing what Faba wanted, and come away relatively unscathed.

Neither Faba nor Lusamine could really describe Guzma's training tactics―they were rather undisciplined and uneven, yanking back and forth between stuffing the beasts with treats and pleading for cooperation, and completely losing his temper.

* * *

"Guzma." Lusamine called after him, catching him before he disappeared through the door.

He slowed to a halt, huffed, and asked, "What?"

"Come here, please."

He sighed and plodded back. He wore an incredible scowl.

"You're in quite a mood this morning," she easily observed. She took on a sweet, consoling tone. "Is there anything I can do?"

"No." His answer came out flat, hard, like a curse.

"Hmm." She started to look him over, to his complete dismay. "When did you get up?"

"I dunno," he said. Then he clumsily upped his lie. "A while ago."

"I see. And this 'while ago'―you spent it doing what, exactly?"

He slouched and started to lean in the direction of the door. He eyed it desperately as a path of blissful escape. "―Can we _go_?"

"Guzma. Look at me."

He did, and tightened his face. He knew it. He _knew_ today would be like this.

"I don't want you rolling out of bed and trundling into work. It's unprofessional and it's unhygienic."

"Miss―"

"Now, I've let you get away with it too many times, and you clearly think I think I'm oblivious or unserious on the matter, so this is what you're going to do. I'm going to give you―" She glanced at her watch. "One hour. Go upstairs…"

" _What_?"

"Take a shower. Brush your hair and your teeth. And for goodness' sake, put on something you haven't worn for three days in a row."

This was the last straw. He exploded. "Why you _geekin',_ Miss L?! It's not like I'm goin' on TV! Look―I'm just gonna do tests, right? I could do that in my PJ's!"

Lusamine thought of about a dozen things she could say at that precise moment, but kept each of them quiet. Instead, she kept silent, gave him a look, glanced at her watch again, and then waited.

He whined and he kicked the floor and he went on and on about the unfairness of it all. To be treated! As if! He was a little kid! He raged and frothed, sputtering with all the energy brought on by his indignation.

Finally, though, he started to run out of ways to complain, and he saw she was still ignoring him, keeping her eyes on her watch.

He blustered. "Miss!"

"Oh," she said dryly, looking up. "Are you finished?"

He stiffened like a board, his muscles taut and ready to fight. She was making fun of him; she was _mocking_ him. His broken wrist, tightened inside its splint, throbbed with the strain of his anger.

"Because now you have fifty-nine minutes."

Guzma kicked the wall with his foot and stifled a scream―he had hit his sprained toe on the way. Bleary with pain and rage, he grabbed a glass flask from the table and chucked it into the wall. It shattered, matching his shouting. "I don't wanna do this no more! Screw it! I quit! I didn't sign up for none of this! Nobody tells me what to do! Nobody!"

And with that squawking finished, he stormed off into the hallway, cursing and limping the whole way to the elevator.

* * *

Lusamine didn't worry; this happened virtually every day. Sometimes, it happened twice a day.

The poor dear―still adjusting.

She had at least fifty-five minutes before Guzma would slink back into the lab adequately ashamed of himself and pretending nothing had happened. She carefully planned the day around explosions like these, even building in flexible blocks of what she affectionately called "cool-down periods" and Faba snidely referred to as "time-outs."

Speaking of. She turned to the glass panel, pressing the microphone button to speak into the computer lab on its opposite side. "Faba, dear," she said―she saw him turn from his computer screen, pausing his work to look at her. "We're taking an early break today. Join me for tea?"

Not near enough to a microphone to speak back, he gestured with an affirmative wave.

"In your office, please. I'll see you there in five minutes."

Faba made a face, as if he wanted to say something urgently, but she turned away.

* * *

"I apologize for the mess, Madame," Faba said upon seeing her enter. Five minutes of warning had proved not enough for him to make his office space at all conducive to morning tea; he had cleared the guest chair, at least, of papers, and had cleared a little space on his desk, but the whole room was in an embarrassing disarray.

She didn't show any offense, instead marveling, "There's truly a renaissance of activity down here. I hope it hasn't been overwhelming."

Faba gave up on making the place pristine, and they both took a seat, on opposite sides of his desk. He looked at her. What a far cry she was, he thought, from not so long ago. She looked so vibrant now, so strong and alive―so very… much like herself again. As the attendant brought in their tray of tea, setting their cups and filling them, he made his observation known to her. "You have experienced a remarkable turnaround yourself."

She smiled, adjusted her cup, and nodded to the attendant as she explained, "Purpose, dear, is the most potent medicine."

They waited for the attendant to leave before they continued speaking. A sudden weight fell over his office, and he didn't like it.

"Faba, I would like to speak with you in confidence," Lusamine suddenly said. "You see, with recent developments, I think it is time we cleared the air, so to speak." She stirred her tea and tilted her head. "For once and for all―we must make clear the issue of loyalty."

"Loyalty?" Faba dropped his cup back into its saucer. "I'm not sure what you mean; my loyalty has always been to you, Madame."

"Oh, let's not muddle things. You were loyal to Mohn."

Faba opened his mouth, almost ready to speak, but realized suddenly he had no way to answer that.

She explained herself. "After Mohn… Well, when it was determined he would not be returning, you went to the Board of Directors." When she saw how his face changed, she sipped at her tea for a moment. Her eyes skimmed over him for signs of contrition. "I know this because I went through their files and found the transcription of the meeting."

Sweat beaded on his brow. He started to shake.

"You begged them to give you the Presidency. You told them that I was an unqualified fashion floozy―a vapid debutante―an embarrassment to their cause―"

"M-Madame!" He scrambled to his feet, hands pressed together. "Please! Since then, I-I've come to realize―"

"Faba." Her face, eyes, and voice softened, cushioning him with sympathy. "Do you think I don't understand?"

His pleading stopped; he looked confused.

"I was an outsider. And you were hurt. We were all hurt, then…" She set down her tea cup and looked outward, a bleakness covering her in memories of darker times. She eventually settled her eyes on a picture Faba had hanging on his office wall, below his doctorates and a prestige plaque he had received years ago. She stood, walked over to the picture, and gave it a long, heavy-hearted look, her hand resting on her chin. "...Sometimes, I wonder if you weren't hurt the most of all."

Faba slinked back into his chair slowly, feeling his legs turn to jelly. He winced. "Madame, _you_ were married to him," he reminded her thinly.

"All the same―we share a fate, don't we? Grasping like children, trying to hold onto him." She calmly lifted the picture from the wall and pressed it to her chest. "That's why. Why, though I know you are not loyal to me, you will always have a place here, Faba. You are, in so many ways, the last piece of him that I have. And that is also why I can trust that your loyalty to him will sustain newly in me."

As he mulled over this promise, she drifted back to her seat, pulled the picture out before herself, and pressed her fingers to it. A gentle smile came over her lips.

"This has always been my favorite picture of him. He looks so relaxed. So―in his element."

Faba knew the picture well enough not to need another look. It was the day Aether had been formally made a Foundation; all of the chairs, co-chairs, founders, and head scientists were all standing before their now-former headquarters, eyes bright, smiles proud. A more formal version of the photograph existed somewhere, with more professional faces and stances, but he had kept this version: in it, a young Mohn, in his lab coat and tie, hand upright and waving to the camera, had spontaneously swung his other arm about Faba's shoulders.

Lusamine was not in the picture.

She saw his melancholy expression and gasped a little. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to depress you."

 _No,_ he thought bitterly, _just to play me like a violin_. The worst part was that it had worked. He sighed and swallowed hard. "No, it's qu-quite all right." He got up, gently released the picture from her hand, and placed it back on the wall, taking time to carefully straighten it.

"Well! Seeing as we're here, I have another matter I wish to discuss." She neatened her skirt for a moment, giving him time to find his seat once again. "How is Guzma doing?"

Faba couldn't roll his eyes to the ceiling fast enough. He honestly didn't know where to begin. The boy, since showing up with the beasts slung over his shoulder, only terrified him more than ever. The quest he had undertaken in capturing the monsters had turned him scrawnier and more savage; he punched and he threatened and he bullied with starved ferocity. Faba decided to keep his answer politely withdrawn. "We have our work cut out for us."

"I think we've made tremendous progress."

"So you would. You're the only one who can get away with scolding him."

"He is energetic," she said, still smiling. "But he's responsive to correction." She noticed him looking unimpressed. "I am aware of your difficulties with him, Faba. Perhaps if you approached him differently―"

"The boy is an ogre," he said flatly, leaving no room for discussion. "I've _made_ monsters more trainable than _that thing_. Ought to be locked up, with the key thrown away. If I had known sooner that this pet project of yours was going to take over my life, I would have hanged myself."

"Dramatic, as always!" She fluttered her eyes at him, somewhat admonishingly, but also with a sense of pity, as if she understood. "He wasn't raised by wolves, Faba. He lived with his parents until not so long ago."

He scowled a little, sipping at his tea. He growled into it, hoping to muffle his words. "...Makes one wonder."

"The poor dear needs some mothering."

"...And that is your prerogative, Madame. _Not mine._ "

"Ah, but there are things boys cannot get from their mothers." With that, she put a meaningful hand atop his, and pressed her eyebrows together in concern. "I had so hoped you two would get along better. That he would look up to you, perhaps confide in you―that you would be a father to him."

Faba choked in utter disbelief. "Are―are you joking, Madame!?"

"Why would I be joking?"

He sputtered indignantly. "'Look up' to me! You're making _him_ your kahuna." By saying it, he was reminding her that she had selected him―Faba, the Branch Chief!―to be merely captain. "Not to mention he could probably break me with his bare hands―!"

"But you're older, more experienced, more accomplished in your field..."

"Don't butter me up! He is a predator! The way he eyeballs me―!"

"Only because you're so quick to criticize him!" she implored. From across the table, she reached to take his hands, folding them into her own. "My dear, he requires a certain… Gentle touch. If only you took the time to encourage him, to praise him, to show him the slightest bit of care―" She took his two hands, then placed them together, guiding his fingers to weave into one another and clasp tightly. "I promise you, he will become putty in your hands."

"If I were…" He uncertainly sent his eyes up and down her figure, so that he didn't have to say it directly. He grit his teeth. "...Of your persuasion, I might believe you."

"I give you my word. You will be shocked by how quickly you get results."

"I make no promises," he said. But his eyes jutted over to the picture on the wall, and he withered slightly. "But… for you, Madame, I will put some thought into it."

"Wonderful!" She flashed him a sunny smile.

In the end, they chatted on more frivolous matters for some time, finished their tea, and returned to the lab, where Guzma already waited, adequately freshened up for the day. Lusamine cooed at him, lavishing him with praise: _so much better, so much more handsome this way_ , and though Guzma still pouted a little, he could not suppress the coloration in his face that showed proof of his pleasure.

* * *

The moment the strange woman walked into his suite, Guzma took a severe disliking to her. Her heavily-accented voice boomed out, almost shattering his eardrum with an excited screech. "Lucie! Dah-ling!"

Lusamine, who had opened for her to enter, greeted her with as much emphasis, though not as much volume. "My dear friend!"

The two women poured out a cascade of words he didn't understand―eventually he realized it was French―and joined arms, laughing and cooing and purring at each other. They kissed cheeks and gushed for what felt, to him, like forever.

Guzma, who stood awkwardly in the middle of his living room, stuffed his hands into his jacket and waited it out. He had known that some "fashionista" that Lusamine knew personally was coming here―the appointment had been long-standing―but he didn't expect to witness this much affection between the two. It confused and embarrassed him.

He also didn't know Lusamine spoke fluent French, though considering it now, it made some sense. Guzma had learned occasional tidbits about the Foundation through these weeks, and he had heard, somewhere, that the branch had primarily originated out of Kalos.

Finally, Lusamine and the woman separated their embrace and he got to get an actual look at her.

She had short, cropped hair, flashy diamonds at her ears and throat, and a puffy, over-the-top dress lined with fur. She carried a sizeable business case, too bulky to hold only papers, but carried it with one hand effortlessly. She clacked around hurriedly in tall, narrow heels; her body was rail-thin, willowy, and tall, easily matching his height. Her energy took immediate command of the room, as if the very molecules of the room lined up to her liking. Her head moved quickly, swerving and sweeping, identifying and analyzing every little flaw in her view.

―And kept looking at him, eyes crawling.

Lusamine took her arm and looked to Guzma for his attention. "This is Mademoiselle Heloise, an old friend―and simply the best designer out of Kalos."

"Merci! You flatter me too much." Heloise broke away and rushed up to him, before he had a chance to flinch. "Ah! This is the young man, oui? _Bonjour, mon amie_!" She reached and clasped his face. "What a handsome boy you've given me to work on, Lucie!"

(He uncomfortably wriggled away).

"I hope you're not too intimidated by such a tall order," Lusamine said to her.

"Oh, not at all! It is not every day I have the chance to design a gym leader!"

Guzma looked confused. "I ain't a gym leader."

"You―ah, I see." Heloise snapped her fingers, trying to stir her memory. "You call it―what is it― _ka-hoo-NA_." She over-pronounced it, putting emphasis on all the wrong sounds. She grinned. "So exotic! Now what is your name, my pet?"

He barely had a chance to open his mouth before she cut him off with more rapid-fire speech.

She practically yelled in his face. "Come now! Out with it! No need to be shy!"

"Guzma," he blurted, praying she'd shut up, or at least slow down. He felt dizzy, just listening to her.

" _Guzma_. Lovely. _Merveilleux_. Now, let me―" For a whirlwind of a second, she looked him up and down, her head cocking and swaying rapidly, her expression turning contemplative, strange, and unreadable. "Ah," she said, as if discovering something. She waved a finger in the air. "Ah, yes. Lucie?"

"Hmm?"

"He has had his measurements, yes?"

"We're getting him fitted tomorrow."

"Ah, _très bon_. And a stylist? You have a stylist lined up already?" She laughed suddenly, hitting her forehead with her palm. "Oh, what am I saying! Who am I speaking to!"

...Guzma, by now, seriously wondered how long this was going to take. He scratched on his forearm, especially where his splint got sweaty and uncomfortable.

Heloise, without another word, hoisted the large case in her hand across the living area, making her way into his bedroom. That she moved about so freely startled him, but he followed her at Lusamine's urging. The woman set the case on his table and had already opened it―there were papers, and cloth samples, and color palettes. Lusamine disappeared out into the main room; she appeared busy writing something as she went. In any case, he was now alone with this twitchy, overbearing woman.

"My plan is simple today," the woman said, now finally directing her speech at him. "We are going to―get a few sketches ready, throw some color on you, see what pops; this is really a, oh, how would one say this―a time for me to capture―whatever it is that you are."

"...Sure. Whatever."

"I'll have designs ready on paper in, oh, three days―and we'll move from there." She caught his eyes, boring her intense gaze into him. "Do you have questions, perhaps?"

"Not really." He tugged on his sleeve. "But I think―"

She swiftly cut him off with a bubbly laugh. "Oh, dear, no! You needn't think at all. I am to do all of that for you, understand?"

He gave her a baffled look, lip curling with incredulousness. "...Yeah."

"Well! Let us get started right away, oui? Strip, please."

Guzma thought he misheard. He lifted an eyebrow. "Uh, what?"

"Really!" Heloise started gesturing emphatically with her hands and snapped her fingers rudely. "Down to your undergarments, quickly. It all must go, right away! All of it!" When he didn't immediately obey, she went over to it, starting to grab the jacket at the shoulders. "Here, my darling, let me help you."

"What are you―!" Guzma lurched and knocked her hands away. "Woah! Hey! Hands off! My clothes are staying on, lady!"

"What is an artist without blank canvas?" she scolded. "Come now, there's is no need to be shy."

She tried again, and again he knocked her hands away. "Quit touchin' me!"

Lusamine must have heard their shouting from outside, because she swooped in, her heels clacking hard against the floor to show her displeasure. She gave them both a stern look and placed a hand at her hip. "What on earth is going on in here?"

Guzma shrank up against the wall, flush with anger. He spat out his answer. "Nothing, other than this lady trying to _sexually assault_ me!"

Heloise screamed. "Oh, oh!" She spun around, clutching her chest like he had planted a dagger there, and for a second they both thought she was going to faint. " _Mon Dieu_!"

In retrospect, if he knew the woman better, he might have chosen a gentler way to phrase his disagreement. She not only swooned, but after being caught by Lusamine, she fell to pieces, bawling and crying out expressions of disbelief.

"Never! In my life!"

"My dear, please, calm down."

Guzma, gawking at the spectacle, eventually said, "What's _wrong_ with her?"

Lusamine shot him a glare. "Guzma, that's enough!"

In all the explosion of dramatics, Heloise finally found her footing, enough to sniff and say, "I must go." She started clawing for her case.

"Oh, really, dear, that won't be necessary."

"I love you, and you are gorgeous, but I cannot do it! I cannot!"

"My dear friend!" Lusamine clutched her hands and purred her sympathies. "Please, I beg you. He is a thoughtless brute, I know, but look at him―" She pointed at him pityingly. "The poor dear is frightened. A trembling lamb, a sparrow―"

Guzma tried to interrupt. "―Hey!"

"To be left by himself with such a strong and beautiful woman―it must have momentarily overwhelmed him."

Guzma knew now she was ignoring him, so he rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. "Tch."

Heloise, though, seemed both touched and comforted by her words. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "Ah, oui, I see it now, _mon meilleure amie_. You are right. You are always right!" She kissed Lusamine on the cheek, joined their arms together, and let loose a long, overwrought gushing of French exclamations. "How could have I doubted you for an instant?"

Under his breath, he muttered, "Geez, get a room."

"Guzma!"

He stiffened, thinking she heard him. "What, I didn't―"

"I can hardly find words, other than to say I am severely disappointed in your behavior."

"I―"

"This poor woman is a friend and colleague, here only to help you. I'm shocked that you would treat her with blatant disrespect!"

He could feel anger and humiliation knotting in his throat. After all this, she was going to ream him out in front a stranger, like he was a disobedient two-year-old?

Her voice sliced into him. "Guzma! Apologize this instant!"

"Is she gonna apologize to _me_ for―"

A single, cracking stomp of her heel on the floor cut him off. " _Now_!"

Guzma let out an enraged, sharp exhale through his nostrils, swept his leg to the side to give his dresser a hard kick, and sank his head miserably between his shoulders. He picked out a spot on the floor to stare daggers into and resorted to pouting for a minute, but that got to be more embarrassing than being scolded in the first place. Through clenched teeth, he strained out a muffled, "...M'sorry."

Lusamine growled. "I don't. Think. She could hear you."

"Oh my g―" He lifted his head, spewing loudly, and not without sarcasm, "I said, 'I'm sorry'!"

"I could do without the attitude."

Thankfully, before she could try to bully out _another_ apology attempt, Heloise chimed in. "Lucie! Please. Think of it no more. It is forgotten." The woman broke from Lusamine's side and swooped in, taking his hands. " _Mon petit loup_! We have gotten off on the wrong foot. I can be a headstrong creature, a real terror. Now, please. If you would forgive me, we can put this all behind us."

Her magnanimous plea, paired with Lusamine's urging look, pressed him to say, "Okay."

Heloise appeared disproportionately thrilled at his answer―but Lusamine cleared her throat.

"My love, I know we have wasted some of your time already, but can I ask for only a minute more? I would like to speak to him."

Guzma's expression darkened, and Heloise did not dawdle, politely sidling her way out the door. A moment passed. His breath flared. He figured he was about to get lectured some more, so he paced around in the small square of the room that he saved for himself, stomping invisible bugs and swiping at invisible enemies with his fists. It was like every part of his body wanted nothing more than to fling outward and knock the room apart.

Lusamine watched him for a while, then sighed heavily. "What _has_ gotten into you today? I know we had a rough start, but Faba told me you did very well this morning, and I thought that would continue."

Guzma roughly pushed his hands his pockets and scowled.

Her voice dropped a bit, turning to ice. "...You promised me you'd do better."

"I―!" He cringed and forced his eyes shut. He kicked at his bed, landing a hard crack at its frame. "I am! I mean, I will! I'm trying!"

"Guzma. Tomorrow, I'm introducing you to the Board of Directors."

"I _know_."

"What can I expect to happen? Are you going to embarrass me?"

"Nah! Nah, I'm not gonna―" That accusation set him alight, and made him flail and tug at his hair. He sounded chastised and hurt. "I'm sorry. I _promise_. I'll― I'll do better. I'll be ready! You can count on me!"

She folded her arms, weighed his penitence, and finally decided it would do. "Very well. Now, what started all this silliness?"

He clammed up.

"She asked you to remove your clothes, is that right? It's perfectly standard―whatever's the matter?" She looked at him―studied him, as if trying to figure out the source of this resistance. "Do you not like your body?"

"What? Nah! It's not―" He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I don't care about that."

"Then what is it?"

"I dunno―I just don't want to."

Lusamine didn't look particularly moved by this logic, so he blurted out some more, tugging at the ends of his hair as he struggled to express his thinking.

"It's just weird. Like―it's not normal, to―you know―"

Lusamine almost laughed, but caught herself in time. "Oh, dear, dear, dear." She pressed her fingers to her temples, like she was overcome with a headache. "Wherever did you get such a silly notion? Guzma, let me―" She walked over to him and touched his shoulder. "I want to help you. Will you let me help you?"

He shifted his eyes uncertainly. "…I guess?"

"Then let me explain something to you." She motioned for him to sit down, and he did so. She stood with prim, precise poise, placing a demonstrative hand to her chest. "I am from the Kalos region originally. That's how I came to know Mademoiselle―we have worked together for many years, beginning when I was a young lady starting my career in modelling."

Guzma couldn't say he was surprised by any of this information, but he didn't know where this was going.

"In such an industry, it was not unusual to undress. Why, I had my first nude photo-shoot when I turned eighteen. It was nothing vulgar," she said, seeing his face start to contort. "It was all purely artistic, you know―for fashion magazines, _L'Enchanteur_ , _Maybellé,_ the like. Kalos, in some ways, is more libertine on such matters―Guzma, you are turning a very strange color."

That would be because Guzma had stopped breathing. He sputtered and finally sucked in some air. "I―uh―"

She didn't wait for him to stammer out an excuse. "This is all to say―what we do with our bodies depends so much upon context. If it is the proper context, such a thing is not wrong or strange. Besides, young man, you're not posing in front of a camera, and you certainly won't be nude―she only wants to see your figure for a moment, to help her make decisions. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Guzma nodded, but the truth was his brain had completely shut down after the words "nude photo-shoot" and had since run off into the proverbial wilds to frolic and play.

"I'm so glad." She trotted back to the doorway. "Heloise, dear! We're ready for you now."

"―We are?" Guzma blinked hard, stirring awake from his daze. "W-well, you don't think―I mean, we could, like, re-schedule, or―?"

"What are you talking about? Guzma, she's come a long way, and we've wasted enough time already."

Heloise wandered back in, vacant and excited, like nothing had happened. He waited for Lusamine to leave. She didn't. He gave her an exasperated look. "Uh, you aren't―"

"What are you waiting for?"

Apparently _nothing_. Guzma snorted and grumbled, starting to take off his jacket, hoping she'd get the hint by the time he started fumbling with his zipper.

Finally― _finally_ ―she had the decency to turn her back to him as she chattered endlessly with her lady friend, their French skittering over their lips. He decided to hurry and get this over with.

Heloise peered up at him. "Ah, yes, that's fine. Now stand naturally for a moment. This should be quick." Heloise took up her pencil and began to sweep the shapes of him onto paper. Her eyes traced him, then the paper, and then slipped over to Lusamine, who had politely settled her eyes on the opposite well. Heloise growled. Lucie, you are truly a dog of a woman. How do you do it? To have this pretty little wolf, to smack it so―I am dying of jealousy.

Lusamine didn't respond, but smiled to herself sweetly.

Heloise paused the movements of her pencil and spoke to Guzma, who had crossed his arms over his chest. " _Mon amie_ , put yours arms down; I cannot see."

* * *

The entirety of the next day, Faba avoided both Lusamine and Guzma like the plague. He did not need any more reminders of future indignity―of having to show his face to the directors, plaster on a fake smile, and pretend to like the snakes for an entire evening. He'd much rather do something productive with his nights, like stabbing himself in the eye, or jumping off a bridge.

He distracted himself by sealing himself up in his office for a majority of the day, working on mind-numbing number-crunching, and then telling his staff that he was going to remain in his suite―absolutely no interruptions.

This was why he was so baffled when, after successfully cajoling himself into getting dressed and ready for the ever-approaching dinner, and managing to get caught up in a horrendously frustrating argument with that idiot chemical supplier over the phone, he was startled to hear his buzzer, and even more startled to open his door and find Guzma on the other side.

For a moment, neither man recognized the other. Guzma, hair tied back, in a fitted suit thatstill managed to look ill-fitting on his gangling form―and Faba, in his white dress shirt, suspenders, and necktie, lacking the large green glasses that usually sat on his face.

Guzma didn't know immediately what to say. "Um."

Faba gave him an unwelcoming, impatient look. He had a phone to his head.

"Miss L sent me."

"Oh, for the love of―" He clapped his hand over the receiver, heaved a sigh to the heavens, and motioned him inside. "I'm on the phone. Come in―sit down, don't... break anything. I'll be with you in a minute."

Faba's suite was unlike any of the other rooms Guzma had entered at Aether Paradise. Where other rooms communicated Lusamine's aesthetic of lightness, modernity, and simplicity, Faba's had a decidedly more ornate and baroque style. Dark wood in the facades of the walls, detailed carvings in the door-frames and shelves, deep reds on the carpets and paneled floors, brassy leather furniture. His lab coat could be seen hanging on a hook near the door, and its white color clashed with the ruddy copper and mahogany of the surrounding space.

Guzma heard Faba off in the other room in the midst of a loud, heated argument about chemical shipments― _yes, all the vials, contaminated, two million dollars worth!_ Guzma had no interest, then, in eavesdropping, so he milled about, poking his face into various belongings. Most things were beyond him: books on fields he couldn't pronounce, large-scale models of molecular structures, complex diagrams of equipment. Though a living room, Faba's work had successfully infiltrated it; stacks of papers and reports that had been dragged in from his office piled on his coffee tables and chairs. One shelf had a glass panel protecting a large array of awards and plaques, each carefully cleaned. The whole room represented Faba's mind well: focused on fifty things at once, operating on an organization scheme only he perfectly understood, and meticulously guarded against cobwebs and dust.

In the end, the only thing Guzma recognized as an object was a chess board, placed carefully on a table next to the fireplace.

The ebony pieces, to Guzma's untrained eye, looked scattered randomly about the game board, so he didn't sense it would be a problem to pluck up the small carved chessmen and give them a look. In his boredom, he shuffled them around, started to make a pattern out of them.

Faba, finished with his call, returned through the doorway. "―All right, now what is that you―" When he saw what was Guzma was up to, he just about shrieked. "What―on earth are you doing!?"

"I'm―"

"Get away from that, this instant!" He dove for the board, snatching the pawn from Guzma's hand. "I _told_ you, I told you not to―!"

Guzma huffed. "I didn't break nothin'!"

As Faba pushed him aside and scrambled to set the pieces back in their original placements, he heard Guzma whining.

"I was bein' real careful!"

"The game is in mid-play," Faba said. As he collected his wits, he realized how hysterical he'd been. He lowered his voice. "I―I'm sorry, but the pieces need to stay where they are."

For another few moments, Faba frantically mumbled letters and numbers to himself as he reset them, trying to recall each of their placements, but he gradually lost track and gave up. He shook his head, saw Guzma's dejection, and decided the damage was done.

"It's―" Faba pinched his forehead and relented. He summoned his most gentle, reaffirming voice. "Never mind it, it's all right. I have the notations written down somewhere." He moved away from the board.

Despite Faba's attempt at rectifying things, Guzma still looked a bit put off. He didn't touch the board immediately, like he expected it to be a trap of some kind. He did, though, glance it over, and notice a piece of paper wedged beneath the board. Without asking, Guzma pulled out the paper and started reading aloud. "One, E-four, E-five, two, NF-three―" He frowned at it. It looked a bit… Mathematical, for his taste. He absentmindedly read the notation in the corner. "Faba versus Mohn." Some gears clacked away in his head, making a deduction. "Oh, it's an old game, huh?"

Faba froze.

"Why don't you start a new one?" Guzma started clacking the pieces around with his hand. "I'll play you."

The boy, bless his heart, was a little dim. Faba winced at having his memories poked at, but calmed slightly once he found Guzma didn't understand their importance. "O-oh, you play chess?"

"Nah, but I got, like, mad checkers skills." To demonstrate, he hopped the black knight randomly about the board, eventually landing safely in white's territory. He grinned toothily. "King me!"

"…Yes. Very amusing." Faba just then realized how side-tracked he'd been. He folded his hands behind his back. "Now, why are you here?"

"Oh. Well―Miss L sent me."

"As you said. Whatever for?"

"Uh, Miss L―I mean, she said that―" Guzma started fidgeting with something at his shirt collar.

Faba, growing impatient, tried to read his body language. Obviously, the boy was too embarrassed to spit it out. "What is it? Is something the matter?"

"No." Guzma, flustered and visibly frustrated, muttered a series of words under his breath. It was then that Faba noticed the necktie, strung loose and undone around Guzma's neck―the boy started twisting it around, pulling on both ends of it, as if to bully it into cooperating.

"Ah. I see." Was that all he came for? Faba felt a headache coming on. He motioned for Guzma to face him. "...Yes, let me help."

But when he stepped forward, reaching for it, Guzma immediately had an adverse reaction; he backed away, gave him a nasty look.

Faba jumped back, like he expected to be bitten. "Or―! Er, here, hand it to me. I'll show you."

Guzma seemed to find this more tolerable. He eased, pulled the tie from his neck and gave it to him.

As Faba swung it over his own neck, he felt the presence of the boy looming over him, and he found it hard to concentrate. He tried to calm his nerves by talking. "No one's ever taught you?"

"Nah." Guzma shrugged self-consciously. "Never had to wear nothin' stuffy like this."

"No matter; it's very simple. Here, watch. Now, first you fold it like this, and―"

And before he knew it, there he stood, the boy inches from him and more attentive than he had ever seen him, and he demonstrated how to fasten a necktie.

"―And finally you put it through here, and tighten―there, you see?"

Guzma studied him for a second. Faba could tell by his blank look that no, he didn't.

"Hmm. Well―" Beginning to suspect this was going to take longer than he thought, he took a shortcut. He loosened the tie enough to pull it over his head. "For now, put this on and adjust it. You can practice on your own later."

Guzma, without saying anything, took it. As Faba suggested, he pulled it over his head and at least attempted to adjust it; Faba got briefly distracted by fastening his own cuff-links, and once he turned back, Guzma had it… Mostly figured out.

"Erm…" Faba calculated the risk. The knot was misshapen, but only slightly. Enough to bother the perfectionist in him, but was it enough to risk poking the tiger? He awkwardly gestured at it. "Perhaps―can I…?" When he leaned in this time, Guzma didn't flinch―only stiffened, letting him fiddle with it for a second. Faba breathed with relief when he finished and was able to let go. "Ah, there. Better."

Guzma pawed at it, suddenly feeling the pressure of it around his neck and not pleased with it.

"They're torture devices," Faba said. He said it flippantly, not really thinking, but it actually elicited a goofy half-smile and snort from Guzma. Faba continued, "At least it's not our everyday wear."

"Heh. Yeah."

...After a moment, Faba came to realize that Guzma was still standing there, a tad too close for comfort, and was _looking_ at him, eyes wide and intent. His face was pensive. Nervous. Expectant. A little… Beholden.

"Did… Did you need something else?"

"Uh, nah." Guzma finally averted his eyes, but to Faba's surprise, rather than leave, he thumped down, seating himself heavily onto the sofa.

Faba decided to ignore him for a moment, ducking into his room to fetch his jacket.

But when he returned, Guzma still sat and wiggled his tie with discomfort. He had started to exhibit a clammy, pallid complexion. His knee bounced persistently, and one finger had looped around a knot of hair, tugging on it. His other hand had gotten to be so fidgety that he actually grabbed a throw pillow and started kneading it, digging his fingers into it, crushing it. His breaths were low, but they rattled and popped, loud enough that Faba could be irritated by it from across the room.

In a thready, uncertain tone, Guzma started to speak. "So these are… Important people, huh."

"One could say that."

"She really, uh, wants me to make a good impression, or whatever."

"Yes, I imagine she does."

"C―" He stuffed the pillow against his stomach and started to tug on the ring on his index finger. "Can they vote me out, or somethin'?"

Faba couldn't contain a scoff of disgust. "Oh, I wouldn't worry. She has them wrapped around her little finger, have no doubt about that."

"But what if I screw up? What if they don't _like_ me?"

The question―and the emphatic way it was asked―caught Faba completely off guard.

Then, all of a sudden, Faba recognized the look on Guzma's face―he had seen it a number of times, on the faces of grad students flop-sweating before defending their theses. The sense of dread. The overpowering terror of having one's fate placed in some nameless committee's hands.

Guzma was afraid.

Now that Faba thought about it, it made sense. The boy likely coped with fear by lashing out, using violence to topple his emotions. No wonder he had been pitching hissy-fits every day for the past week.

It couldn't be said that Faba felt sorry for him. But seeing the "ogre" like that―well, it humanized him, a bit. Guzma, for all his bluster, felt the reality of the pressures being put on his head.

A stab of resentment drove Faba to sigh and reassure him. "Boy. Er―Guzma." Guzma looked up at him and Faba somehow found the courage to continue. "You'll do fine. These people―don't let them intimidate you. They're really quite shallow and self-absorbed. Flatter them. Smile and nod. Make them feel important. That's all there is to it."

"Oh… Okay." Guzma's fidgeting slowed, as did his breathing.

...Was that all it took? The boy was more pliable than he thought.

There was a long, pregnant silence. Guzma, in processing what Faba told him, had evidently come to some drastic conclusions, leading him to start speaking again.

"...Mr. Faba?" The name sounded awkward and stilted coming from his lips―he had never actually addressed him by name before. "You're… You're supposed to be smart, right?" Guzma had phrased the question clumsily; the caveat _supposed to_ at first struck Faba as an insult, so it took a second for him to realize Guzma was actually asking in earnest. Guzma noticed his reaction and tried to correct his mistake. "I mean―you know a lotta… Stuff."

"I have a double doctorate, if that's what you're referring to."

"See―!" Guzma punched down on the throw pillow and sucked his teeth. He started grousing again, rambling mostly. "I don't know what that is―! It's like, all the time, there's stuff I don't know― And she uses these words, and I'm not sure what they mean, but if I ask, I'll just look stupid― And I think she already thinks I'm stupid―"

"Well…" Faba started to say.

Guzma talked right through him. "But I don't _want_ to be stupid," he said. His fists shook with a sudden, frantic birth of some new desire. "I wanna be smart." Then came an unspoken, but heavily implied, _like you._

And that's when Faba stopped, looked at him, and saw something he didn't recognize.

A strained, childlike devotion haloed Guzma's determined expression―a vow, a covenant, as if in one desperate snatch, he had swept Faba up into his collection of cobbled idols―as if to say, _I will do anything for you, anything you say, at any cost, if you would take and mold me._

Faba felt something drop in him―like a stone plummeting into his stomach. A thought hit him, and he had no clue how to process it:

This boy. This _boy._ Faba was no developmental psychologist, but everything about him smacked of arrested development, like something had caught Guzma by the throat when he was ten years old and hadn't let go since. Faba suddenly remembered that this was ostensibly a _man,_ in his early twenties, the age at which Faba himself had graduated from university and had been already accepted into a prestigious doctoral program in Kalos. The scientist had his immaturities at that age, to be sure, but he wasn't throwing temper tantrums or slinking about begging for scraps of approval from his elders.

Guzma―taller than most around him, with a body of heft and muscle, angry at the world and most of its inhabitants―he could traipse the world and capture deadly beasts, clobbering himself in the process. Yet the moment he's challenged, given something he cannot beat into submission with his fists, he absolutely crumbles, regressing into infantile whining, shrieking, kicking, and biting. He squirms. He pouts. He stomps. It all only feels threatening because of his size―but ascribe the same actions to a two-year-old, and they begin to hold some context.

 _Child, what trauma did this to you?_

Lusamine must have understood this from the beginning. After all, she was right: one tiny physical interaction, one half-hearted piece of advice, and the boy's defenses collapsed, making him clingy and needy, like a stray animal that had just received a tasty morsel from a stranger. In that moment, he could have told the boy to do cartwheels about the suite, and he might have done it, just to be praised.

It made… Faba more uncomfortable than anything. One thought floated in particular, unnerving him: _a predator's dream_. A person of fewer scruples than he would have a field day, taking advantage of this trapped adolescent who thumped his tail sadly and whimpered for validation.

Faba grimaced and cringed. "Young man―" He shook his head and sighed. "You know―" But what could he say? He certainly wasn't to air those suspicions or misgivings; it wouldn't do any good. "Madame is likely waiting for you. Why don't you go attend to her?"

Guzma didn't at first know how to answer this dismissal. He must have thought his desire would be reciprocated―that Faba would jump for the chance to form him. He gradually shrugged off his disappointment, and pretended to be relieved. "...A'ight."

Finally, Guzma slid out of the room and back out the door, leaving him in peace.

* * *

Faba returned to the chessboard, drew up a chair, and sat before it. He knew he would need to collect himself soon―the dinner would be starting within the hour―but he took the time to carefully replace every piece until it was restored.

As he did some nights―certainly not every night, but especially during ones in which he felt particularly alone on this ghoulish island―he went ahead and completed the game. There was only one move left―Mohn's finishing play. So he performed it in his stead. Over, and over, and over.

He picked up the black knight. "Knight… To D-three. Checkmate." He shook his head bitterly, sinking his chin into his hand. " _The Smothered King._ " He flicked over the white king with his fingers, letting it topple onto the floor. He sighed. "Mohn. You always got me in the end, didn't you...?"


	10. Checkmate, Part 2: The Queen's Pawn

**Chapter 10: Checkmate, Part 2: The Queen's Pawn**

Guzma had never entered the private garden adjoining the mansion; he never had a reason or a real desire to do so. He had seen pieces of it, hints of its flora over fences, an overlook from one of the upper floors that gave him view of its crafted hedges, cobblestone paths, and trees. It was of conservative size―not nearly as sprawling as the conservation area. Lusamine spent considerable time there, but never with him. She sometimes walked the paths alone in her thoughts, holding a parasol in the bright of mid-day, or draping a shawl about her in the cool of the evening. Other times she would sit on a bench by the reflecting pool, shaded beneath a young elm, and read by herself. Guzma had always perceived the garden―and the times she said, "I'm going to be in the garden"―as a sign that the place was an untouchable, intimate space. He felt uncomfortable even peeking out windows and watching her, shining and white out in the garden's greenery.

So it came as a surprise, hearing her tell him that the Board of Directors awaited them there.

In the last light of the evening, the garden shone with a rosy, golden color and was striped with long cast shadows. The sea breeze rolled over it gently, rustling the trees in the softest fashion. Lusamine let him walk beside her, to her left, and did not speak any reassurances as they walked between the first line of hedges. Guzma decided not to disrupt the silence, but he still occasionally darted his eyes over to her. She wore a light seafoam dress and gold bangles at her wrist. He especially paid attention to the bracelets, how they clicked, glistened, and rang together as they brushed up against her hip.

Lusamine had already drilled him with their faces and names, but their identities had mostly tumbled out of his memory. Regardless, the board members were scattered throughout the center of the garden, most attended by a personally-owned pokemon. Docteur Morel, a hard-looking woman in sharp attire, sat and waited alone on the garden bench, her Pyroar posing beside her, and occasionally she reached out to stroke its brilliant crimson mane. Monsieurs Pierre and LeRoux stood off together in the midst of some deep discussion while their respective Furfrou and Herdier barked and tugged on one another's ears along the stone paths. The two men were tall, thin, and so bland-looking that Guzma would confuse them the rest of the evening. The only board member to bring their spouse was Monsieur Dupont, a large, beefy man who smoked and drank whiskey brazenly and made loud, dry laughing sounds that seemed to grate everyone around him, including his slim, weary-looking wife, Madame Dupont. She had a Phantump hovering right above her shoulder, adding to her gloominess. Lastly, Madame Blanchard, the youngest of the board members, bubbled about the garden, carrying on successive conversations with every member with casual ease; she dragged a reluctant Delcatty on a diamond-studded leash and giggled incessantly. Mercifully, though, she picked up the mewling pokemon when it was accosted by a curious but overly-excited Herdier.

As they approached, he heard someone, perhaps a female voice, though he couldn't be certain, say, "There they are."

He felt all their faces turn towards him. He slowed, almost stopped. But Lusamine put a hand at his lower back and gently pushed him onward.

"Good evening, everyone!" Lusamine called out, her voice airy and bright. "I'm sorry for the wait."

"Madame," Docteur Morel said as she stood, her voice taut and serious, "there is no need to apologize. Your hospitality is always appreciated; especially in such―" Her words seized with meaning. " _Trying times_."

The way they looked to one another nodding showed they all agreed.

And as if some code had been uttered, they all returned their pokemon to their balls and began moving towards them; Lusamine walked to Morel first, as if in gratitude at her kinds words, and began to greet them one by one.

Trailing a little behind her, he watched as she poured out her welcome, kissing each of them on the cheek. Almost immediately, they gravitated towards him in turn. The men shook his hand and the women kissed him. Lusamine had forewarned him about the latter, to avoid inevitable misunderstanding. ("It is common in Kalos to greet a new acquaintance in such a manner.") None of them wore particularly friendly faces, but they murmured their greetings warmly enough― _ah, bonjour, Monsieur Guzma. We've heard so much. How nice to meet you in person._

After the greetings were done, the mood lifted a little. Lusamine began a conversation with them, leaving Guzma standing alone just behind her. This started to drag on a little too long. But thankfully, Dupont looked about suddenly and spoke up, a little too loudly for polite company. He had dropped his cigarette onto the ground, so he had one hand clasped around his whiskey glass and another hand at his wife's hip. "Where's Professeur?"

Lusamine answered him. "Professeur Faba is already waiting for us in the dining hall."

"That so?" Dupont chuckled throatily. "I think the man has the right idea. I'm famished. Let's not waste any more time."

His wife looked irritated but didn't say anything. The rest of them paused, forgave his brashness, and looked to Lusamine.

She smiled with amusement. "I see Dupont, as usual, is saying what we're all thinking. Let us continue our conversation over dinner."

* * *

At the dinner, Guzma was seated to her left, and Faba to her right. She naturally sat at the head of the table. Between the three of them, though, most of the talking was done by her; Faba avoided all attempts to start conversation with him, and Guzma successfully kept his mouth clamped shut unless spoken to. The board members pestered the boy with comments and questions for a several minutes at the beginning, and he managed to give stilted, but well-meaning responses that satisfied them enough. Then, as Faba had alluded to during their talk, they mostly shunned him the rest of the hour, gabbing with Lusamine and among themselves, falling back into their habitual self-absorption. Laughing, drinking, telling stories, debating Kalosian politics, gossiping about old friends―Faba sipped his wine and expertly pretended to be interested, but Guzma's eyes quickly glazed over, and he resorted to pushing around his _foie gras_ and trying to look occupied.

Their lack of interest in Guzma was reasonable. After all―and Lusamine had been careful not to tell Guzma this―the decision had been already been made weeks ago. This was all a formality. Perhaps, too, a bit of a test of his fortitude. He didn't hide his boredom very well, and squirmed a little too much in his seat for her taste, but he hadn't hurtled anything or threatened anyone's life. A passing grade, she decided.

"Guzma." She leaned over subtly, placing a hand on his knee.

He jerked a little, surprised at the touch, and snapped to attention.

She spoke quietly to him. "Stop bouncing your leg. And sit up; you're starting to slouch."

"O-oh." He must have not noticed. He stilled his leg and pushed himself up a little. "Yes'm."

* * *

Faba, trying to work his way over to Lusamine during after-dinner cocktails, had been caught. Right when he entered the sitting room, drink in hand, eyes on her where she sat at the fireplace hearth, Dupont spotted him and began teetering over to him. He was clearly drunk. "Professeur Faba!"

Faba bit the inside of his cheek and summoned some fake enthusiasm. "Ah, Monsieur Dupont."

"It has been too long!" Dupont swayed and leaned in a little too close to him, spewing whiskey-smelling breath right into his face. Dupont grinned cheerfully. "Have you met my wife yet? Oh, of course not, we only just got married a few months ago." He glanced about the room and pointed out the sultry-looking woman wearing a revealing black dress. She looked horribly bored. "There she is! My Floria. Isn't she a charmer?"

"Ah, yes, she looks―" _Even younger and more beautiful than your last one_. "Delightful."

"Haven't you married yet?"

Faba forced a smile and a laugh. "Ha, ha, no; still married to my work, I'm afraid."

"Ah, well, don't fret, Professeur." He slapped him on the shoulder too hard and slurred, "There are still plenty of fish in the sea."

 _Yes,_ Faba thought but daren't say, _you seem to have gobbled up your share of them_. "Ha, ha. Of course. Shall we join the others?"

For a moment, he wondered if Dupont saw through his attempt at ending their conversation. But the man sipped at his glass, scratched his head, and burbled, "Certainly. Don't let me get in your way."

They made their way. Faba could hear Madame Blanchard telling Lusamine about her husband's latest expedition. It was really only the two of them, seated at the unlit fireplace―the others had found places to linger toward the walls and corners of the room. Both Faba and Dupont were greeted politely and absorbed into their little talk, which quickly diverged in topic.

"I hope you're pleased with him," Lusamine had said suddenly, looking to Dupont and Blanchard.

Madame Blanchard sighed sweetly. "Oh, well, he's very endearing." (By which she meant, he fumbled and made small blunders that made him entertaining to run circles around). "And the story's sensational, isn't it? A gang leader―reformed by Aether―the delicious headlines that will come of it! This will be a media boon for the Foundation."

Dupont gruffed. "I'm not so sure I like him."

"Oh?"

"Yes, yes, he is much too good-looking. How am I to trust him around my wife?"

Lusamine smiled petitely. "Which one?"

A second of silence―and then the three of them (not Faba) burst out into uproarious laughter. Dupont eventually had to wheeze and thump his chest to recover.

"Do you really think, though," Blanchard went on earnestly, "that he'll be able to train those beasts by the time you go public? They sound quite vicious."

"That they are," Lusamine said. "But the young Monsieur has a special relationship with the creatures. His control of them gets better by the day. Don't you agree, Faba?"

Faba had not been paying close attention to their conversation. Upon hearing his name, he twitched and answered automatically. "Yes, quite." He took to looking pensively at her, working up to courage to extract her.

"In any case, we of course trust your judgment," Blanchard cooed. "I know we'll see wonderful things come of it." She cast a look over her shoulder. "Where did he go, anyhow…? Ah, there he is." She pointed her face in the direction of the corner against a bookshelf, where LeRoux had basically cornered Guzma, making him captive to some emphatic message on LeRoux's part.

"Well, you'd better rescue him," Dupont garbled at her. His drink tipped and dripped a bit as he gestured with his hands. "LeRoux's probably on one of his ungodly stories."

 _Speaking of rescuing_. Faba finally reached out to touch Lusamine on the shoulder. "Madame, I hope you don't mind, but might I draw you aside for a private word?"

"Certainly." She reached up, briefly touching his hand. She gave them all an entreating glance. "Please excuse us."

* * *

As Blanchard wound her arm about Guzma's and dragged him along ("we have such questions for you, darling―"), Lusamine and Faba walked out directly from the sitting room and retreated to the hallway just outside. For a time, they both examined the portrait painting hanging on the wall. Faba had always found the composition and execution of the particular piece abysmal, but it was serviceable as an object to stare at as he contemplated what to say.

Finally, he cleared his throat and mused aloud. "Mohn was always rubbish with his ties. You know I had to tie them for him all through graduate school?"

"Hmm."

"Come to think of it, you took over that duty when you met him. Which brings me to an interesting question―"

"I told you," she purred. She stretched and admired her manicured hand. "He needs a gentle touch." She waited a beat to ask, "Did it work?"

Faba grumbled. "...Practically threw himself at me."

"Hmm. Isn't he delightfully complex?"

"I have…" He shook his head; he couldn't believe he was saying this. "Reservations."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"What do you really plan for that boy?"

She burst into a delighted laugh. "Faba! I'm surprised. I anticipated that he would warm up to you, but that you would grow soft on him so quickly―!" She teased him by tracing his neck with her finger. "Should I be worried?"

He ignored it, seething. "Don't mistake me. I speak purely to the interests of the Foundation. That a new branch of your empire would be pinned on that―emotionally stunted child."

"Now, now. You let me worry about that."

For a time, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching and contemplating their shared domain through the open doorway: Pierre, LeRoux, and even Morel had finally joined the cluster before the fireplace, where Dupont was still drunk and loud, and Blanchard still tugged on Guzma's arm. The boy occasionally looked up at the two, especially at Lusamine, pining for guidance, but she averted her eyes.

"...You're going to eat him alive, aren't you," Faba finally said, mixing revelation, curiosity, and resignation.

"You always put everything in such crass terms," she complained gently, not responding to his accusation. In the end, she tilted her head back, listening to a particular strain of music, and smoothed her fingers through a long sweep of her hair.

Faba waited, but hadn't really expected her to ever directly answer him. He accepted her silence as proof of it; he shook his head wearily. "Madame. He's your toy. As for myself… I have no desire to involve myself in your silly dalliances."

"I take issue with the term 'dalliance,' Faba, but your concern is noted."

That was Lusamine's way of saying: _I'm not willing to discuss this anymore_.

"Anyhow. I think tonight went splendidly, don't you?"

"Ah, yes, bravo―" He lifted his glass in the form of a toast, smirking snidely. "I didn't think you could do it, but tonight, he had the personality of a wooden post―just the way they like it."

Lusamine correctly interpreted this as more of a stab at the board members than her, or even Guzma. Faba could be so delightfully petty. She had never squelched that part of him―it proved too entertaining.

"Though it would have been more bearable with some additional company," he went on, griping in an unusually transparent fashion. It was not the first time he had this thought; he originally thought Mrs. Wicke would be in attendance tonight, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was not perhaps at the same intellectual level as himself, but she wasn't deathly boring to talk to, and he typically leaned heavily on her presence at functions such as these. "Come to think of it―" His thoughts strayed a bit. "I haven't seen Mrs. Wicke at all today. Did she take a sabbatical for once?"

"Oh, dear!" Lusamine turned to him, her expression crushed. She lifted her delicate hand to her mouth to cover her gasp. "In all the excitement today, I forgot to tell you―"

His heart suddenly lurched.

"I had to let her go."

* * *

Had to let her go?

 _Had to let her go…?_

* * *

"What…" He stopped, in a momentary daze. "What are you talking about?"

She mewled pathetically. "It was most unfortunate. It seems she was selling company secrets. There was no other way to handle it."

"Her? That's―" He sputtered frantically, tripping over his words. "That's _unfathomable,_ that's insane―!"

"I know! It came as a shock to me, as well."

...Wicke? The Assistant Branch Chief? The woman who had been here from the beginning of the Foundation, who had served at Lusamine's side for years, who had practically raised both of her children? Gone with the flick of wrist? Faba clawed at his shirt collar and gasped for air. "The directors―! Should they find out―!"

"Oh, Faba, of course they know. I consulted them this morning about it."

He might have screamed, if he hadn't caught himself. They _knew_? They _knew_ before he did!? And a lot of good that had done! Dry eyes all around! Not a whiff of sadness among them, not so much as a passing _oh, what a shame about_ … "But this is―!" His entire body shook; he almost yelled. "This is a disaster! Beyond the pale! A travesty!"

"Faba, it's taken care of."

"What good could come of this? We're ruined! To have such a high-standing and respected member of the Foundation, cast out in such disgrace―!"

Lusamine lost her patience. She latched onto his forearm and pressed down hard, all while motioning with her face for him to bring his voice down. "It is _all_ ," she said, "taken care of."

He saw red―then centered himself. She felt his easing and let up on his arm; he stroked his beard to continue working his eruption of nerves. He looked out over the room. The Board of Directors had changed a lot over the years, especially since Lusamine assumed control as President of the Board. Old members had finished their terms and moved their careers elsewhere―the only board member Faba knew from before the power shift was Dupont―the drunken idiot, too distracted by his revolving-door marriages to care about these troubling circumstances. And the rest had been oh-so-carefully hand-picked by Lusamine.

Mohn. Wicke. Faba thought on himself a moment: _dear lord, I'm nearly the last one left. 'Last line of defense' indeed!_

And he suddenly felt like a gazelle surrounded by cackling hyenas.

She noticed the strangulation in his expression and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I don't want you to worry," she whispered. "I've made my intentions clear to you, haven't I? A man of your ambition... Do you think I don't intend to reward you?" The words out of her mouth had the sigh and gush of freshly-opened champagne.

He soured. With his hysteria restrained, his nerves snapped into bitter words instead. "Madame, do not take this the wrong way: but I would sooner drink cyanide than marry you."

She feigned hurt. "You're a wicked creature, Faba. To take advantage of a mourning widow so; one night of passion, and you shut me out―"

('Night of passion'―what passion is she dreaming up? He remembers, vaguely―for he has repressed much of it―the blackness of their entangled grief, her drunkenness when she pounded his chest with her fists and screamed at him, _I cannot stand to be alone, I cannot bear it,_ the crippling weight of his own anguish, and his unwillingness―or was it inability?―to fight her off. The two of them―grasping at ghosts.)

"...I'm only teasing, dear. You needn't look so pale. Besides, I know you've never been interested in the…" She rolled the next phrase off her tongue. "...Explicit benefits of such an arrangement. I have much better things in mind for you."

He eyed her with sudden suspicion. She had dangled that idea before him for years, always with a clear understanding that it would a political move, not a romantic one―now, at last, was she backing off? He wetted his lips with thought. "Such as?"

"Oh, you'd ruin the surprise!" She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Unless there is some prize you already had in mind."

"I loathe surprises," he said simply, not even addressing whatever she was trying to insinuate with that _last_ part. He grimly took a hold of her champagne glass. "Madame, let me freshen your drink for you."

Lusamine relinquished the glass to him and said nothing else to him; once he left her side, she glided back over to the directors, meeting them with pleasantries.

Guzma had been pushed mostly out of the circle by now, left to play with the ice cubes in his drink and fidget with boredom as he stood alone in a corner; the directors had wrung the entertainment value and novelty out of him, and moved on to their true purpose. They closed in on Lusamine, gabbing, clucking like chickens, tittering, making their offerings.

All lined up. All _I love you,_ and _my dear_ , and _whatever you say._

Flick, flick, flick, Faba thinks. All the queen's pawns―toppling over, one-by-one.


	11. Sellout

**Chapter 11: Sellout**

On a day about seven years ago, a pack of Skulls had clustered and taken over the one, large cafeteria table in the food court at the Mele'mele shopping mall. This particular pack had made the spot a traditional haunt every Thursday afternoon, because one of the vendors there had a special weekly deal on popcorn―buy two, get one free―plus free refills on soda―and the security at the mall was too incompetent to drive them out, no matter how loud or unruly they got. They brought in beer and cussed and laughed and made a huge mess. They sprawled out over the table as much as possible, despite there potentially being plenty of room for other customers, sitting atop it and smearing their boot grit on the seats. All to say: _back off_.

In those days, they weren't called "Team Skull"―they weren't much of a team, anyway. They lacked the uniforms and the logo, they lacked Po Town or any other headquarters, and they lacked the rigorous hierarchy that allowed for leadership. The kids were just called "Skulls," a derogatory term meant to refer to any teen or pre-teen aimlessly roaming the islands, composed mostly of runaways and petty criminals. The term was so new that even the "Skulls" didn't use it to refer to themselves. They gathered on street corners, lived in abandoned warehouses and trailer parks, lingered in shopping malls, and sold cigarettes and swore at cops at the docks. Their clothing style ranged, as did their hairstyles and personal tastes, but they united in their outrageousness, their flipping off of traditional customs and sense of decency.

They always moved in packs―and the packs didn't always get along with each other.

It didn't used to be that way. The kids were remnants of political upheaval on Ula'ula; a kahuna used to lead them as a more unified force, gathering all the misfits and problem kids under one name and challenging them to claim their stake. But the kahuna― _their_ kahuna, whom they worshipped as a savior―had done something terrible, and for that sin, which they never knew or understood, he was struck down by the Tapu.

After that, the Tapu left and wouldn't be seen again, not for years. The young Molayne remained captain, but he holed himself up in the observatory, rarely emerging. So in one fell swoop, Ula'ula became nothing. No Tapu, no kahuna, no hope.

"Yo, Plume!" One of the Skulls, snickering, elbowed the scrawny girl sitting next to him. "Check it out. I found you your new boyfriend."

"Huh?" She set her beer down between her leather boots and turned her head, swaying her pink braids in the direction he pointed.

They looked, and saw a boy.

The kid was clearly a teenager, about their age; he stood at a gawky height and lurked over to the malasada stand. His face appeared to be in a permanent scowl, he wore a well-worn black hoodie and dusty jeans, and he had a ridiculously untamed head of black hair. The kicker, though, was the object spotted on his head.

"Oh my god," one of them hissed. "What's that? Is that a bug?"

That it was. A Masquerain had settled, nestling in his hair. It fluttered its wings occasionally when he moved, but mostly folded them and rested calmly.

Scabs, the Skull who had pointed him out, couldn't stop snorting. "Wow. That's so 'cool.' Plume, go tell your new boyfriend how _cool_ that is."

Plumeria punched Scabs hard in the knee, eliciting a yelp of pain. "Shut up."

Another posed their hand in their own hair, fluttering their fingers mockingly. "You think it _lives_ in there?"

"Oh, snap, y'all, look, he's coming this way."

To their shock, the kid indeed moved their way. He had purchased his malasada and held a drink in his other hand. He had looked out at the table, saw them seated there and occupying much of it, but was not deterred. He walked to the end of the table, plopped down his food onto it, and sat.

They tried to get his attention with a yell or two, but they realized he had earbuds in, blasting what sounded like thrash metal directly into his eardrums. He started eating his malasada, not regarding them with his eyes.

Finally, one hopped down and went over to him, pushing on his shoulder. "Hey, kid."

The kid didn't say anything, but upon seeing the Skull, removed an earbud.

"This is our table, yo. You gotta sit somewhere else."

The gawky, mop-head kid looked at him. Sized him up. Then said, voice low and tight, "I don't see your name on it."

"You got a death wish, or somethin', kid?!"

The kid didn't answer. He slipped in his earbud again and continued eating his food.

The food court erupted into noise. The Skulls screeched and howled. They pounded their feet on the benches, making a huge racket; they barked insults and cuss words at him; at least one took to throwing kernels of popcorn at his head.

"Get outta here!"

"Buzz off!"

"Cut your hair, freak!"

He showed a brief moment of irritation at the rattling of the table, as it riled his Masquerain, but he sat up and chewed pensively, eyes still glued to the other side of the mall. He even reached about, plucking up the kernels that had landed near him, and started pushing them into his Masquerain's face, who squealed and crushed them hurriedly into its mandibles.

Several emotions boiled up in them as they hounded him to no effect: first, they were irritated that their tactics hadn't intimidated him; second, they became bored; third, they became enveloped in a sense of unease and dread, like they realized his inaction was not purely acquiescence, but a gesture of magnanimous mercy.

The Skulls drifted into disquiet. They stopped what they were doing, shuffled around, then began making excuses for their fear and retreat.

"Man, look at 'im. He's probably a serial killer or somethin'."

"Yo, let's bounce."

"This joint's dead anyway."

"Let's hit the arcade, y'all."

They all leaped off the table, clomping and knocking over bottles and garbage. By the time they streamed out of the food court, it looked like a tornado had torn through. Then there was silence.

* * *

Guzma scarfed down the rest of his malasada, but had no intention of moving. He stretched out his legs under the table, slumped, and tried to enjoy the peace of zoning out and absorbing his music.

But after a minute of allowing himself some zen, a girl appeared into his vision across the table. He recognized her as one of the Skulls―she was a tiny thing, thirteen years old, in a leather jacket and boasting a pierced nose. Her pink braids hung loose, framing her round, hazelnut face, and she wore a curious, inquisitive look.

He initially tried to ignore her, but the girl flumped down into the seat across from him. "Hi."

Genuinely startled, Guzma jerked up, gave her a sour look, and pulled out an earbud. "Huh?"

"I said, hi."

He watched her face a little too long, like he was trying to figure her out and analyze her intentions. He didn't look pleased with his conclusion, but he answered her back in a flat, uninterested tone. "...Hi." He moved, about to put his earbud back in.

"I like your Masquerain. It's cute."

"Uh." He narrowed his eyes. "Thanks, I guess."

"What's your name?"

He glanced about the food court, like he suspected a trap. "Do you _want_ something?" he asked her irritably.

"I wanna say hi," she said. She crossed her arms. "Geez, what's your problem?"

"Look, your…" He sighed and shook his head. " _Friends_ are probably waiting for you."

"I don't care," she told him. "They're jerks."

"...Then why are they your friends?"

"They're cool when you get to know 'em." She brought up her legs against the edge of the table, the worn denim in her jeans splitting to show the scuffing on her knees. "I'm Plumeria."

Guzma still frowned, but got the feeling she wasn't going to leave him alone. He sipped on his soda, grunted, removed both earbuds this time, and obliged, "Guzma."

"Well, hi, Guzma, nice to meet you." She bounced the words out overly-formally, to embarrass him. "I've never seen you before. You live around here?"

"Yeah, I live―" He hesitated. "Around."

"Cool. You must be a trainer, huh?"

He briefly wondered when the questions would stop. "Sure."

"You any good?"

He shrugged. "Made top rank at some championships when I was a kid."

"Aren't you _still_ a kid?" she teased.

There was a tiny moment when his steely, grumpy facade crumbled, and he flushed a little. "I― Yeah, I mean, when I was like twelve."

He couldn't be more than fifteen. That he didn't just say 'three years ago' made her think that this kid was jonesing hard to grow up. "Look, if you think you're any good, you should stop by Ula'ula sometime. That's where we're from; we hang at the docks at night. They talk a lot of smack, but I bet you could show 'em a thing or two."

He didn't know what to make of her offer. He swivelled his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

"So, I'll see you?" She was pushing for an answer.

"I guess."

Plumeria took this answer as affirmative enough; she smirked at him. "Okay. I'm gonna be expecting you. _Guzma_."

* * *

Plumeria didn't honestly expect that conversation to change everything. But it did.

Because Guzma showed. And he demolished them.

Because Guzma experienced a series of private failures that burned him in such a way that he gravitated toward and clawed his way into her gang.

Because Guzma, in what felt like only weeks, took over her gang and ultimately her life.

What Guzma lacked in intelligence or even charisma, he made up for in brutality, strength, and vision. He could beat anyone down, and in his sprawling ambition, he could dream up glorious futures for them―no more in-fighting he said, no more playing craps on the dock, no more wondering what to do. He was going to be Boss, he said, and they were going to be a Team, with rules and goals and _everything_.

And the Skulls remembered, all of a sudden, what it was like to have someone at the top: a person who believed in them, who tapped into their desire for direction and hope. He crushed his competition and gave voice to their anger. Unlike their kahuna, Guzma was just like them, a kid crawling out from under the weight of mediocrity, and this inspired an even greater sense of vicarious victory every time he succeeded. Big, Bad, Boss Guzma. Not afraid of nothin' or nobody. Their symbol, their rage incarnate, their infallible god.

If there was anything Guzma was a master at, it was this: being what you wanted, what you needed him to be. Give him a role, and he will consume it, become it so completely that eventually, he fools himself.

* * *

Faba's lab was quiet.

 _Mercifully_ quiet.

His staff, who normally would accompany him in the mornings, had been snatched up for some press release or _something_ ―Faba didn't press for details, but only told Lusamine that he had work to do. Being Branch Chief had its benefits, one of which was he could usually come up with an excuse to skip out on public appearance nonsense. The whole island was abuzz with activity, primarily related to the exteriors of things, the flash and pomp of media and presentability. He had better things to do than attend Lusamine as she drove her army of assistants about.

So, in relative silence, aside from the constant hum of electronic equipment and computer terminals, he sat and cleaned up old file trees and re-compiled data stacks―brainless work, the sort he did in his free time to allow his head to flow about and explore other places.

Then, after taking a quick break to brew some coffee and seating himself back at the terminal, the sliding door opened to reveal a stalking, unhappy Guzma.

The boy―though Faba hardly had time to look him over―was all gussied up in his new uniform, which clashed so hard with Guzma's usual get-up, that it took the scientist a second to recognize who he was. He flapped about in his purple coat, steaming and storming, and tugging on the glistening, white Z-Ring he had been gifted a few days prior.

When he saw Faba, he gestured at the ring hotly.

"This thing _you_ gave me―" (Guzma emphasized his words to imply exactly where he believed the blame should lie.) "―ain't _working_." And in his fit of anger, he wrested the bracelet off and smashed it onto the counter-top.

For a second, Faba could swear his heart had launched into his throat, gagging him. "Would you please―!" Faba choked down a mortified scream as he pulled himself to his feet. "Not! Slam the expensive device on the counter!"

Some things, in their months of working together, had not changed; Guzma still raged and Faba still snapped. But when Guzma now withdrew his hand from the ring, face still hard with pent-up frustration, there was a flicker of acknowledgement in him. He adjusted―mumbled. " _Sorry_."

Faba hurried over, pushing past him and scooping the Z-Ring in his hands up like he was rescuing it. He didn't reply to the apology; he didn't follow Lusamine's philosophy of heaping affirmations on him for things he _ought_ to be doing. He gave the bracelet a quick look-over, and seeing no damage, breathed a little easier. "What seems to be the problem?"

"How am I s'pposed to know?"

"It doesn't look broken."

"Well, it doesn't work! I've tried it like a million times!"

"And you're sure you're using it correctly?"

"I'm a _billion_ times sure!"

Faba decided he'd better reason him down before he resorted to _trillions_ or, God help them, _quadrillions_. He carefully lifted the Z-Ring and pointed to it. "Guzma. There are really only three elements at play here, correct? The first is the bracelet itself. It's a carved mineral. Normally made crudely by hand in a shack somewhere. This particular one was finely and precisely cut in a laboratory to maximize conductivity. I cannot fathom what could be wrong it. Second, we have the crystal. It's from your own collection, and we've run it under a spectrometer to verify its purity. It's safely in the ninety-ninth percentile. Lastly, there's _you_ , and whatever flailing around you're doing to try and trigger the conduction. Where do _you_ suggest the problem lies?"

"I dunno!" Guzma yelped instinctively, but Faba could tell, as his explanation went on, that the boy increasingly felt the blame being directed back at him. Guzma had stiffened, giving the Z-Ring a betrayed and sheepish look, and after crossing his arms protectively against his chest, squirmed his feet. All of Lusamine's training hadn't zapped him free of _that_ telling habit.

Faba watched Guzma frantically thinking to himself, and started a mental countdown. _Three… Two… One…_

Finally, all the tension snapped in Guzma's body, leading him to burst with repressed guilt. "Crap! I'm sorry! I shoulda said something before, but I kept thinking―!"

 _...And there it is._ As usual, Faba had to try and collect Guzma's floundering. "Whatever are you going on about?"

"There's something wrong with me," Guzma said, pulling on his hair miserably. He then confessed, agonizing like he expected to be soundly thrashed for it, "I _can't use a Z-Ring_."

Baffled, Faba rubbed his forehead and sighed tiredly. "I'm afraid you have made things even _less clear_ to me. Are you saying―"

"I'm tellin' you! I knew I couldn't― at least, I thought I couldn't― but then you said I was gonna get one, so I didn't say anything, and I thought I'd try it―"

"Would you quit rambling and start over from the beginning?"

Guzma did manage to calm himself some, and he grabbed at the edge of the counter, his knuckles going white. "It's just… When I did my challenge, when I was a kid, Hala never gave me one."

"Yes, I understand that," Faba said impatiently. "That's why we're going this trouble in the first place. What's your point?"

"Hala…" He hesitated and thought hard. Now, he felt a little silly saying it. "He _wouldn't_ give me one. He said I wouldn't be able to use it."

Faba was surprised; he had never heard any of this. "And what reasoning did he give?"

"I guess… I dunno, he talked a lot about having to be centered, or something, like your spiritual energy has to be balanced―"

Faba cut him off. "What superstitious claptrap. The device is a conductive rock. That's all there is to it. It has nothing to do with 'spiritual energy' or whatever drivel he fed you."

Guzma did not look so sure.

"I'm sure he meant well," Faba assured him. "But I don't see how this prevents you from using the device. No doubt you've gotten yourself all worked up and frustrated over it; I'd more readily blame that for your troubles." He watched Guzma languish against the counter-top and sighed, pulling out the Z-Ring's equipment case. Perhaps, Faba thought, staying away from it for a few days would settle Guzma's excitability. "...I'll have them look at it again. But I'm not making any promises."

"I wanted it ready by now," Guzma whined.

Faba suppressed his annoyance at not receiving event a hint of gratitude. "Yes, I'm sure you did, but does it really matter so much?"

"'Course it―" The careless remark threw the boy into a tizzy all over again. He snarled. "All the kahunas got one! How am I s'pposed to try 'n' say I'm a kahuna if I ain't got one?"

Faba marveled privately at how firm of a hold a culture of superstition and tradition could have, even on a child who had essentially been chewed up by it. He went over to his desk, shaking his head, and placed the case there. "All I'm suggesting is―you didn't need it before; perhaps you'll do just as well without it."

This reasoning, though Faba had articulated it rather thoughtlessly, sort of pleased Guzma. He calmed and took on a subtle swagger in his voice. "Y-yeah! Maybe I don't need it." He still, though, eyed the case with a hint of yearning.

Faba decided that he'd waste no more time, so he went back to his computer terminal and took a seat. He did prod a little―mostly to assess how much longer he should bunker down and wait out the worst of it. "And how are things coming along?"

"Huh?"

"All the hubbub upstairs."

Guzma gave him a horrible, pained look, as if buckling from a sock to the gut. "It's… _All right_ ," he said, bearing quite possibly the worst poker face Faba had ever seen.

"Mm-hmm."

As if to bolster his obvious fib, Guzma pointed out his outfit and bragged on it. "Got my new threads today." He puffed up the broad collar of his eggplant coat lined with a subtle gold trim. He also fumbled with the dark green silk scarf, pushing it back over his shoulders. It seemed to be getting in his way, more than anything.

"Yes, I see," Faba said. "Oh, a trench coat―how very… groundbreaking."

Guzma completely missed his sarcasm. He tugged a little on various spots where it still felt new to him: his shoulder, his wrist, his lower back. "I'm trying to wear it in, you know?"

"So you're happy with it?"

"It's fine." The answer didn't gush with enthusiasm exactly, but he looked content.

"I suppose that's what matters. At least Mademoiselle stayed on the conventional side this time; that woman's designs can often come up… A bit inscrutable."

Guzma had no idea what he was talking about, but nodded anyway. "Uh-huh." Guzma sensed the conversation reaching a lull, possibly even an end, so in transparent desperation, he craned his neck at Faba's monitor. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothing much. Cleaning up old files―things get muddled after a few years of compiling data―" He finished rambling and glanced up from his screen to see Guzma leaning over the counter. "Can I help you?"

"You ain't got nothing I can do?" Guzma sounded strangely hopeful.

Since when did the boy go out of his way to find work? Faba eyed him suspiciously. "I'm afraid not; why?"

"You can't, you know, make something up for me?"

That's when Faba figured it out. He stopped typing and clicked his tongue. "...Trying to hide from someone, are we?"

"Uh, no."

"How clever of you. If she calls looking for you, I'm not lying on your behalf, you know."

"Tch." Guzma glared at him, face tense with betrayal. "Hey, I'd lie for _you_."

"Oh, Guzma, I'd never ask you to do that; you're a terrible liar. Now, off with you." With that, Faba dismissively waved him to the door.

"But―"

"Go on. Scram. Shoo!"

Guzma heaved an irritated sigh and trampled his way out, braying, "God, just _shoot_ me."

* * *

Lusamine, inevitably, did find him.

"Guzma! Honestly!" Like a ghost, she materialized from the ether, swooping in on him after he had strategically tucked himself between two bakery tray trolleys, trying not to be seen. He had taken off his coat and scarf, partially because it was sweltering in the dining hall, but also because their color was so distinct from everything in the building, that he stuck out badly. His grey undershirt was muted enough to _mostly_ blend him in, but it didn't matter now. She had him by the arm and yanked him in a dizzying fashion. "I've been looking everywhere for you! I'm ready to consider a tracking collar! Now, there's far too much to do to be standing around looking useless―"

"Miss!"

"My wayward boys," she sighed. "You and Faba do share a knack for shirking responsibility."

Guzma, at being reminded, griped vindictively. "You know he's not doing _anything_."

Lusamine lightly slapped his shoulder in reprimand and kept tugging him along. Several employees flanked behind them hurriedly. "Guzma," she said, "no one likes a tattle-tale."

For a small woman in high heels, she could move around at incredible speed when motivated; he found himself tripping and skipping his steps to keep up with her. She jumped her words about, addressing different employees on every breath, millions of questions and commands buzzing the air. It was fast, over-stimulating, and incredibly annoying.

Eventually, though, they reached the large conference hall, with its pearly walls, rows and rows of empty seats, and sizeable podium platform. As she pulled him towards it, she finally started addressing him. "Have you put any thought into your staging?"

"My what?"

She almost repeated herself, but then brought him up the shallow steps, up onto the stage. She said something to an attendant, then looked back at him, seeing him standing awkwardly at its center, staring out at the sea of empty seats. She thought she read nerves. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

He shrugged and didn't look at her. "I thought I just had to stand there."

"It's always helpful to plan out your steps―where to place your hands, your gestures, how you go about things―if you rehearse even that much, you won't be so nervous."

"I'm not nervous," he said, like he meant it. There remained some reservation to his voice, though.

Lusamine caught it, and had sensed it before, but did not know its source. She observed him as he began to trace his feet on the floor, scuffing the toes of his new shoes. It looked, briefly, like he was trying to sketch out something, some shape stuck in his brain and fighting to come out.

Lusamine knew this unhappiness had been brewing for awhile, and she had her theories. It was only natural, she decided―he had been ripped from his normal conditions, placed in a new and demanding environment to which he no doubt felt completely foreign. And the boyish fantasies he had nurtured by himself―the ones that drove him here in the first place―could not sustain him for long; his worship of her faded a little, by the harsh light of day.

He had also failed to integrate adequately. This, she definitely noticed. She had hoped by confiscating all outward-going communication devices, limiting him to Aether's internal server and phone network so that he had no way of reaching the outside world, he would eventually be forced to bond properly with the place. Instead, his isolation agitated him; he roamed the island as a free floating particle, neither affecting nor being affected. His relationship with Faba showed initial promise, but ultimately stayed superficial, and he had not successfully opened himself up to anyone else.

He was leaning―hard―on his leash, waiting for a chance to snap free and run back into the fields of the wild.

"Guzma."

He didn't turn to her, but grunted to signal that he heard.

"Guzma, I have a suggestion. Would you hear it?"

"For what?"

"I think it would powerful for our guests to see you with the beasts. Do you think you could offer them a demonstration?"

"A―what?" That she had upped the ante so late unnerved him. "Like, on stage? On camera?"

"Not all of them, of course. You could choose two or three that you think would do well."

He looked at her, reading her expression, then thought on it hard. By the way his face changed, he appeared to be imagining the worst. "They don't―uh, really like other people."

"Could you make them stand still?"

"I mean―maybe for a little while." He glanced out at the seating area, other problems materializing in his crawling thoughts. He thought about the snapping of camera shutters and excited shouts in a crowded room. "The lights―and the noise―I dunno."

"We can forbid flash photography. Require the audience to stay silent. Would that help?"

"Yeah," he agreed, "probably. How long you need 'em like that?"

"Guzma, you're their handler. I would have to trust your judgment."

Guzma had always struggled with problem-solving. When it came to matters like these, he preferred to be told. But with the decision kicked back to him, he pressed his palm to his temple and pressed hard. He looked to her… Then the stage… Then the seating area. He licked his lips, and pondered. Finally, he dragged out his thought. "A minute?"

"One minute should be plenty of time," she said. "How about you bring the beasts now? The event director here can recreate the lighting conditions for you―and it might reduce their stress, to expose them to the stage beforehand."

He thoughtfully swirled his tongue about his teeth, chomping and making distasteful noises. "Yeah," he said, swallowing. "I guess."

"Well, I'll leave you to it. I'll be coming back in an hour to see how things have progressed."

"Okay."

Guzma didn't watch her as she went. His thoughts had turned to other things, each rolling hard between the rusty, unsteady gears clacking in his head. He did not calculate as Lusamine did; he did not analyze or reach finely-tuned conclusions. He only read what he knew, in its raw form: that his sense of satisfaction had fled him, and that he felt, in the pit of his stomach, a loneliness grinding him up.

But he could power through it. He knew that, too.

Because soon, within days really, the world would be rushing back in, like a tidal wave against the shore, flooding into him and everything he had worked for. In some impossible way, Guzma simultaneously pined for it―and dreaded it.

* * *

Chops, Bully, Nene, Hornet, JJ, Slip, and Zazi stood atop Shady House and wasted their evening chucking empty bottles over the edge of the roof.

The group of Team Skull grunts had the privilege of sitting there on the broken roof tiles, right outside the entrance to Guzma's room. They were the big kids―big enough, anyway, to bully the rest of the grunts in lieu of Guzma's presence. Their cobbled-together clique hadn't entirely coalesced yet, but their older age and former intimacy with Boss had sealed them together into a wall against the crumbling order around them. After all, they bragged, they were tight with Big G, real tight, or they had been, before everything fell apart; they were the toughest and the nastiest.

Except Slip, who was twelve and still kind of a baby. He cried easy, and looked up to Guzma with the earnestness of a little kid, even though Guzma found him annoying and frequently thumped him good. He was allowed in the group only because Chops was there, and Chops was his big brother.

Tonight, they had less to do and less supervision than usual. Plumeria had gone out―out to Uncle Nanu's. She did that a lot more nowadays, and they puzzled over her. She had not done well transitioning into power. She was tough, they all agreed, but she lacked Guzma's brutality, and that lack led to some of the underlings thinking she wasn't tough enough.

"She likes hanging with Uncle more than us," Chops complained.

Bully had the courage to snicker and joke, "Yo, maybe they're _doing it_."

At that, the whole group erupted into disgusted, exciting giggling, screeching and howling, _Ew! Yuck! Gross! Nasty-y-y!_ The harsh popping of beer bottles shattering on the adjoining rooftop below broke into the night, the brown shards pooling into the gutters already overfilled with glass.

Once they had tired of throwing bottles, their boredom turned their eyes to Guzma's unattended room. With Plumeria out, there would be no one to ward them away. They roamed toward it, over Slip's noise of complaint.

"We shouldn't," Slip whimpered.

"Shut up," Chops said, pushing him.

Guzma's room was dark and out-of-sorts. It wasn't the first time grunts had dug through the place, stealing what they could. After the first two weeks of his disappearance, when the mysticism of breathless waiting lifted, they turned to squawking vultures, fighting over his garments, liquor, and personal belongings. The chest full of Buginium-Z had initially fallen by the wayside―none of the grunts had Z-Rings, and they had no interest in the stuff―but eventually, too, that was dragged off my someone. Not all the kids who took stuff were Team Skull, either; the security had gotten lax, and kids from all over the place wandered into Po Town, gawking at the kingdom without a king. It didn't matter. Nobody cared anymore.

The group started to sprawl about the room, opening drawers for slim pickings, lifting garbage, kicking empty bottles.

"When he comes back," Slip said, "he's gonna be mad."

"You gonna snitch?"

Slip still whimpered and rubbed his hands together. "When he comes back―"

Chops whacked him upside the head, eliciting a pained little sob. "Big G ain't _comin_ ' back, dummy!"

A strange, uncomfortable quiet came over them. It took a second for them to continue pulling open drawers and digging around.

"But why _not_?" Slip whined, clearly holding back tears.

"'Cause he _dead_ , that's why," Chops scolded him. "Everybody knows that."

"He ain't dead," Nene disagreed. "Coppers took him away. He's in prison somewhere."

"Tch. That would be on the news."

"Nuh-uh! There's a secret prison! Where they put all the baddest guys around! I saw it on TV!"

"Dummy, prisons like that are for people who kill people. Guzma ain't never killed nobody."

"Yuh-huh!"

"You stupid!"

"He told _me_ he iced a guy when he was fifteen and got away with it."

"Boy, nobody's been murdered in Alola in like, a billion years."

"That you _know_ of!"

"Well," Zazi started, "I think―"

They groaned at her, already knowing where she was going.

"C'mon!" Zazi gestured wildly, pointing at her temple. "Think about it for a sec! He disappeared―then the Beast Tamer appeared!"

Bully, master of wit, piped up, "Yeah, and then yo mama got pregnant again―was that him, too?"

Another wave of shrieking, hysterical laughter arose, drowning out Zazi's stammering protests. Finally, she blushed and shrank back against the wall.

"I 'on't care if he comes back or not," Bully went on to brag. He pushed into the center of the room with overplayed confidence. "I'mma be the new Boss, anyway."

"Boy, please."

"You dumb."

"Why you?"

He shot a glare at his opponents. "'Cuz I'm the _oldest_ , butt-munch."

"You lyin' like a mug."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

As quick as a flash, Bully and Nene landed on the floor, wrestling and punching and kicking at each other. It was hard for the others to tell how serious it was, because Bully persistently giggled, even as he was socked in the gut and pulled into a headlock. They thumped into the dresser, nearly knocking it over.

Then, the room's door opened; a young grunt pushed it open and peered inward, yelling something so quickly and loudly that they didn't understand.

"Yo!"

"Shut up!"

It was Zazi, finally, who saw the grunt and actually tried to hear what he was saying. Over the noise of the fight, she asked, "What is it?"

"It's―" The kid gasped for breath, waved frantically for their attention. "It's Boss!"

Everything stuttered to a halt.

"Yo, it's Boss! He's on TV!"

* * *

The police station was dark, aside from the glow of television. Nanu and Plumeria had kept the solemn silence, as if in a temple; she felt the squeeze of her held breath on her lungs, and he had gotten up once to retrieve a beer from the fridge. Otherwise, though, they had been perfectly still.

They kept the volume off.

She felt the vibration of her phone and looked at it. "Gladion's calling." As Plumeria said it, she realized how breathless she was, how impossible the words felt coming out. Implied somewhere in her saying it, she was asking Nanu's advice.

But Nanu, seated on his couch, eyes glued to the television, just grunted.

"Gladion's calling," she found herself repeating, more strenuously this time. But her hesitation had kicked the call to voicemail already, and she shut up her lungs, feeling her head spinning. She tried to remember how Gladion even got her number―but then she remembered―when he first disappeared, how the kid reached out to her, her meeting with Gladion and Lillie, everything they told her―

A text message sprang up on her phone, a silent scream. _CALL ME_.

"...This is real," she gasped, clinging to her ponytail and pulling on it, just to convince herself. She sat herself down, cross-legged, a few feet from where Nanu sat. She kept gaping at the screen. "This is really happening."

Nanu shrugged. "Maybe Aether's really got its hologram tech down, who knows?"

 _CALL ME. IT'S URGENT._

"...I mean, his face does look a little funny―no wait, that's just his face. Criminy, don't people look different on TV."

 _PLEASE CALL ME._

"...Whazzat saying, about the camera adding ten pounds? He's lookin' a little puffy."

 _DISREGARD MY PREVIOUS MESSAGES._

 _I'M ON WAY._

 _I WILL BE THERE IN FIFTEEN MINUTES._

 _LILLIE IS NOT RESPONDING._

 _I WILL GIVE YOU UPDATES ON MY PROGRESS._

She groaned and threw the phone face-down on her lap. "Oh my god."

Nanu finally turned to her, lifting an eyebrow. "He blowin' up your phone for any good reason?"

"He's coming here."

"...'Course he is. Great." Nanu descended into deep bitterness. "We'll make a night of it. Have a frickin' slumber party. Make popcorn. Braid each other's hair."

They got quiet for a while. The creatures, one by one, filled the screen―in all their horror, beauty, surreality. It was these images, and not Guzma, that seemed to disturb Nanu.

"Shoot…" He sipped his beer, his face blank and untelling, but his mutters told it all. "Shoot… I'm gonna probably have to go to meetings about this, aren't I?"

Plumeria's phone vibrated again but she ignored it. "This is crazy. This is… What is he _doing_?"

"...World domination," Nanu said, dreamily repeating something from far back in his memory. He snorted and shook his head. "Or something like that."

They fell quiet again. After waiting for some time, they heard pounding on the door, and almost took it to be Gladion, but the noise was frantic, numbered, representing a crowd of tiny fists pleading for entry.

Nanu cursed. "That better not be―"

But it was: the door suddenly opened, once the grunts' patience ran out, and a pack of wet, swearing, jumping kids wrestled their way in through the doorway. They shouted Plumeria's name, and, to a lesser degree, Uncle Nanu's.

"Plumeria! Plumeria!"

Nanu snarled at them from where he sat. "Hey! What are you doin', bargin' in here like that! Y'all better get your keisters back out the door 'fore I get to 'em first!"

Slip whined. "Uncle! It's an emergency!"

"I don't care if it's the apocalypse; you ain't treading all that mud in here!"

Unwilling to take off their shoes, but not daring enter any further, they clustered in the waiting area by the door, cramming in shoulder-to-shoulder. They beckoned Plumeria over, and she sighed, got up, and walked over to them, arms crossed before her.

"We saw him!"

"On TV!"

"He was all―"

"And he was wearing―"

"―That _red_ one, that was flexin'―"

"Boom! Like that―"

Plumeria waited for their chatter to die down. "I know," she finally said. "I saw it too."

"We should do something!"

"You stupid little kids." Her words weighed with antipathy. "There's nothing _to_ do."

"But we gotta rescue him!"

Nanu overhead this comment and guffawed. "Rescue him from _what_? He's gettin' three square meals a day―and then some, apparently―boatloads o' money, probably a nice flat―if I had all that, I'd ditch you all in a heartbeat, too."

"He didn't ditch!" another yelped. "Tell 'im, Plume!"

"Don't be stupid," Plumeria said―that was _all_ she said.

The grunts proceeded to break out into an argument among each other, bickering over what it all meant. Some cried foul, some cried brainwashing and mind control, some cried betrayal. The longer they bickered, the less sense any of their theories made, but one idea stuck him them, being repeated over and over.

"We should go see him!"

"Yeah!"

"We'll sneak through or somethin'―we could visit―make him come back."

It was the dumbest thing Plumeria had ever heard.

Fortunately, before she had to ream them out, over it, the door rattled again, and it opened to reveal Gladion.

The kid wore his usual intense face, draped with the black shape of his hoodie and moist with the wind-tossed rain. The grunts all saw and stiffened at his presence; their opinion of him had not gotten better with time, especially since some claimed he had stabbed Guzma in the back. Some even suspected he had something to do with his disappearance.

"Whatta _you_ doin' here?" Nene sneered at him with their collective disdain.

Gladion didn't move to take off his hood. His eyes were sharp green pinpoints in the dark, cutting through a sweep of platinum blonde hair. He gazed at their gawping faces coldly, but said nothing.

Nanu took initiative. He stood up and waved at the grunts. "All right, kids. Get outta here. The adults are gonna talk now."

Bully spat. "Huh? Gladion ain't no adult! I'm older than he is!"

" _Out_."

The grunts, huffing and growling, tried to put on their toughest faces as they stared down Uncle. But ultimately, they knew better than to pick a fight. Gradually, the grunts turned for the door, pushing past Gladion, pulling up their hoods and slinking back out into the rain, mumbling and complaining to one another as they went. At last, the three of them were left alone in the dimly-lit station.

Nanu, holding his beer, looked back and forth at Plumeria and Gladion. The two regarded each other, and not Nanu, with some private intensity until he shrugged. "I'm gonna watch TV," he announced. "Ain't like I got much to contribute. You want anything, kid?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Gladion replied politely. He turned to Plumeria. "Have you thought of a plan?"

"...Hi to you, too."

He blinked, relaxed the tight muscles at his face, and realized his mistake. "Sorry. Good evening."

"...And there's no plan. I'm not even sure what you want to talk about."

He looked surprised. "I thought it would be obvious." He narrowed his eyes at her―read her rancor―then at Nanu―and saw ambivalence, at best. Gladion had obviously been on the search for signs of panic, and upon finding none, he had to recalculate his approach. "The situation. It isn't good."

"Seems to be working out fine for _him_ ," Nanu said. He had already settled back on the couch after shoving aside a Meowth that had stolen his seat.

"I know my mother," Gladion said. "This won't end well. She can be… Very charming. But she has ulterior motives."

Nanu and Plumeria glanced to each other, eyebrows raised―and Plumeria verbalized what they were both thinking. "Well, _duh_."

Gladion thought then that had explained himself poorly. He put his hand to his face and frowned. "I thought… I thought you might want to reach out to him. Maybe talk some sense into him."

Neither the kahuna nor the Team Skull Admin looked particularly moved by this idea.

"Don't look at me," Nanu said, pushing his eyes the other way. "I've got no skin in this."

Plumeria stayed silent and seemed to agree.

Gladion wasn't shocked at Nanu's indifference, but Plumeria's caught him off-guard. He marvelled, looking directly at her. "I thought you were his friend."

The statement hit her harder than expected; she raged. "What do you care!?" Plumeria charged up to him, ready to shove him in her frustration. "He played you, didn't he?"

"...I see." As if he had taken in her anger, picked it apart, and found its intimate subtleties, Gladion shifted his eyes and nodded to himself.

"What?"

"You don't know my mother. If you did…"

The silence he left was intended to be dramatic, insinuating some dark truth. Nanu put up with for only a second before rolling his eyes.

At last, the young boy sighed and pushed back his bangs. "Aether Paradise is open to the public again as of tomorrow morning. It'll probably be a mess all day. Security will be overwhelmed with visitors."

"And?"

Gladion gave her a withered look, having tired of her rebuffs. "I'm just thinking aloud." He lifted his eyes, and pulled his hoodie back over his head. "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'd better go. I'm thinking of heading to Mele'mele―to visit Lillie. Do you have any message you want to relay to her?"

Plumeria almost snarled something nasty, but didn't. Lillie, of anyone, was the least deserving of cruelty. She could remember the girl's innocent nattering, the way she spoke so purely and kindly of Guzma and his intentions. _You should have seen him,_ she said. _How he saved Mother―_ Plumeria still felt a stab of pity for the girl. "Just… You can 'hi' from me."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you both soon. Good night, Kahuna Nanu."

After Gladion left, Nanu, eyes still on the television, grumbled to himself. "He's a funny little kid, ain't he."

"Yeah." Plumeria put a hand on her hip and glared daggers into the wall. The rain and wind roared outside, swallowing her thoughts. " _Funny_."


	12. My Best Self

**Chapter 12: My Best Self**

Plumeria could not believe they had talked her into this. She hated crowds. She hated being herded around and being bombarded with inescapable noise. And she hated this kind of spectacle.

But here she was.

After enduring the boat shuttle trip, squished between her grunts and the busy cluster of tourists, scribbling journalists, and bouncing schoolboys, she watched the familiar, looming form of Aether Paradise grow from the waves and swallow them.

She had tried to limit the number of grunts coming with her―she knew better than to bring a whole crowd of them and expect to get away with it―but the buzz got to be so great, that even she couldn't fight them off when more than a dozen showed up. At least they had listened to her when she told them to leave the Team Skull gear at home, but they were truly a shabby group, a bizarre gaggle of tweens and teens with dyed hair, chewing gum and spewing curses at each other to the discomfort of the older tourists. The elementary-age schoolboys, evidently making the trip directly from the end of classes for the day, seemed to find their antics hilarious and tried to show off as well. The poor boat attendant tried to deliver her scripted spiel over the boat's speakers―but laughter interrupted her harshly every few minutes. Plumeria slicked back her hair, tucking it under her hat, and prayed that security wouldn't be greeting them once they docked.

The kids lost focus almost immediately. The shuttle docked, the passengers spilled out, and she watched more than half of her group scatter in different directions. She didn't even have time to scream for them to come back; there were too many shiny things in view. Promotional booths scattered the grounds; newscasters tried to negotiate the best angles for their cameras; there were employees everywhere, and people crowded, fighting for space. All the times she had visited, the place was virtually deserted, granted only the occasional visit from a dignitary or special guest. But today, the atmosphere was more like a public festival. Lusamine knew how to draw crowds, it seemed.

"Yo, Plume," Bully said, "what's the plan, huh?"

Bully wasn't very bright, but at least he was focused. She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. "Find G. Talk to him."

"Tch." He tugged on his blotchy, sweat-stained hoodie, realizing too late he had overdressed for the warm weather. "You try'na make this joint sound easy."

"First part _should_ be. This whole stupid event is supposed to be about him, right?"

"And them monsters," Bully reminded her. His eyes had fallen on an information banner right past the front doors― _WHAT ARE THE ULTRA BEASTS?_ There were large screens displaying video footage accompanied with educational narration; at least one life-size model of Buzzwole had kids climbing on it and taking selfies.

"This is crazy," Plumeria said to herself, so that no one heard her. She craned her neck over the crowds, trying to find any sign of where Guzma could be. She looked back to assess how many grunts still remained with her, and hissed to them, "Stick by me. And keep it _low key,_ you hear? No messin' around―no rappin'―no hasslin' normies."

"Bored already," one yawned and whined, and the cluster of them giggled.

* * *

They didn't have to look much longer, because speakers overhead began to make announcements, and the crowd began to file forward in a singular direction. As they listened and followed, they found themselves moving through the main floor, down a hallway in the east wing of the building, and into a fresh, new room that Plumeria had never seen before.

A battle stadium.

It had all the pomposity and virtue of a true gym, far beyond the worn wooden podiums used by the other kahunas: high, arched ceiling strung with floodlights; an arena pit, in the classic style she had seen in pictures but never seen herself: a large square of packed sand; the bleachers carefully enclosed the arena below with tall, glass shielding. Out on the arena grounds, Plumeria saw several employees already out, combing the dirt and retracing the white field markers to fix the impact of whatever battles had happened that morning.

The bleachers were conservative in number, not built to maintain consistently large crowds―Team Skull had to push through to find a spot to sit, blocking other guests in the process, until the arena became standing-room only. The schoolboys she had seen in the shuttle ride over pressed themselves against the glass shielding, fogging it with their eager breath and squabbling over space.

Jay-Jay, ever the wandering type, had spotted some exclusive-looking chairs high above the bleachers and settled into one. Security was pretty quick to hurry over and kick him out; when he trundled back down to them, he reported the seats were reserved.

"Said I couldn't sit there," he complained. "Said they're for the kahunas."

Plumeria glanced up at them. Four seats, gilded, cushioned. She was not surprised in the least that Lusamine would extend the gesture, or that the kahunas had snubbed the gesture by leaving them empty. To be a kahuna was a sacred duty; it meant being chosen by one of the sacred guardians. She imagined they felt this whole business was crude sacrilege.

Poor Nanu was probably currently trapped in an emergency meeting on the matter. He would be griping about that to her soon enough.

Her thoughts distracted her so badly that it was Bully who elbowed her. "Plume!"

Out from the tunnel connected to the arena pit, she saw Aether Kahuna Guzma emerge.

* * *

Guzma wore the same get-up from the conference the night before, and though he was quite far away from them, she could read a certain relaxation and confidence in his stride. On television, he hadn't quite mastered his deer-in-headlights look at having cameras shoved in his face, but it appeared the morning battles had sharpened him. He glanced briefly over the crowd. Plumeria wondered if they'd be spotted―but the overpowering flood lights over him obscured the rest of the arena in shadow, preventing him from making out any faces.

The speakers made some announcement that none of them could hear over the babble of the watching crowd. Another trainer, from the tunnel opposite Guzma, walked out onto the grounds. The babble got louder, then quieter as people strained to listen. When the two trainers crossed the dirt floor to exchange a brief, sportsmanlike word, one grunt suddenly stood to his feet, shrieking. "KICK HIS BUTT, BIG G!"

Plumeria whirled around, found the source of the voice, and struck the kid's head hard, knocking him back into his seat. "You― _shh_! You idiot! You're gonna get us caught!"

Fortunately, the grunt's shouting had swirled and mixed in with the excited shouts from other directions. By the time the trainers took their places, and the battle was ready to start, the jeering had built up into a steady roar of whispers, cries, thudding feet against the metal bleachers. Plumeria felt around her the height of their ecstasy, their screeching for novelty, their lust―she kept her seat for the entire duration of that fight, but the boys and girls next to her could not restrain their bodies or voices. They lept, they screamed, they hit and pulled on one another.

"Crazy," she repeated to herself.

Guzma and his beasts―as she focused her eyes on their movements, she noticed how little he spoke to or commanded them, how in-sync they were. In all the years she knew him, she thought he knew his battle-style: belligerent threats and demands, lots of wild gestures and shouts. But here and now, there was a strange quietness to him. Like he had developed some secret language that only he and his beasts could decipher. He would nod, tilt his head, adjust his arm or hand―and they shuddered at his behest, squealed at the glee of being allowed to rampage with his permission. And as if in exchange for this gift, they sprang out, crashed, and destroyed his opponent within mere minutes.

Team Skull shrieked, like they had forgotten―as if they didn't remember what this all meant. Plumeria, though, kept deathly silent, her arms tight against her stomach where she sat. Because _she_ knew. _She_ remembered.

* * *

Most of the crowd cycled out after several battles, tiring of the spectacle and itching to move their feet, but new, more interesting visitors filled in their seats. Plumeria could tell most of them were not from the area, and a lot of them were obviously trainers, eyeballing their surroundings like panting, hungry dogs. Some took notes. Others watched the battles with fierce intensity, no doubt planning their own strategies. Trainers from Kanto, Hoenn, Sinnoh― Champions and top challengers. Whenever Guzma battled with his familiars―the pokemon he had used to his entire life―the crowd got restless and chattered among themselves, but the moment a beast emerged, it was the air sucked out of the room, and everyone's eyes glued to the battleground. These beasts moved so strangely, gloriously, and brutally. They crushed his opponents one-by-one.

 _Kahuna Guzma is the winner!_

 _―And Kahuna Guzma is the winner!_

 _―And once again―!_

This isn't a challenge, Plumeria started to think. This is a slaughterhouse.

"How many fights he gonna do?" a grunt started to complain, their head sinking into their hand.

"Seriously? You're bored already?" She shook her head. "You know this is history in the making, right?"

"I flunked history."

Laughter erupted among the grunts, as did some rapid foot-stomping along the bleachers.

"F'real though, Big Sis, when we gonna be able to go talk to him?"

"When he's done, I guess." Though each battle had a brief break between them for healing and personal refreshment, she doubted Guzma was going to be able to battle all night. Was there a schedule somewhere? She suddenly wished she had nabbed some of those pamphlets she saw floating around. She had initially ignored them because it somehow creeped her out to see his picture on them.

A few of her kids, whining of hunger, wandered back through the crowds after spotting some people with food in their hands from some sort of concession booth. Plumeria had given up on trying to corral them anymore. She had too many thoughts weighing on her, and she started to feel the helplessness of not having a substantial plan.

Finally, though, after a few more matches, Kahuna Guzma dusted off and turned for the tunnel, passing shoulders with a glowing, smiling Lusamine.

Plumeria felt her heart race, but at same time felt a chill run through her.

The woman― _that_ woman―took her place in the middle of the arena, speaking with sweet command into the microphone.

" _Good evening, everyone! I am Madame President Lusamine to this branch of the Aether Foundation, coordinator of Aether Paradise. I am so very pleased at the response we've received from the surrounding community and nearby regions. This is the last of our current roster of battles for the evening―_ "

Some of the crowd already started to move and push their way for the main exit. Lusamine was undeterred and kept speaking over the rumble of feet and chatter.

" _―For coming out this evening for this special event; if you are interested in registering for the full experience, our assistants out in the lobby would be glad to―_ "

Plumeria eyed the back exit door that was clearly marked 'employees only.' Her feet shuffled, and she gauged the level of attentiveness of the security personnel. They had wandered a little, in light of Lusamine's remarks and the movements of the crowd to the front exit doors.

" _―Thirty minutes, there will be a demonstration by our science team, allowing you a more intimate look into how these creatures―_ "

"Guys." She elbowed Bully and kicked the toes of her sneakers into the backs of those sitting in front of her. "Hey."

They stirred a little, but not enough. She hissed at them hard.

"Guys!"

Finally, she got most of their attention, and pointed subtly for the exit.

"Follow me."

Plumeria had no way of knowing the door wouldn't be locked, so she fell on her usual strategy. Walk casually, bump into it, looking like a lost tourist who wasn't watching signs. The door gave way.

She heard, a little far off, above the heads of the following grunts, a security officer calling out to her.

"Hey."

(She pretended not to hear, slipping her body through and letting the grunts file in after her).

"Hey, you can't―!"

They saw the guard starting to run for them. Plumeria gave the signal. They bolted.

* * *

The security wasn't very good. Suddenly, Plumeria wondered if this wasn't how both Gladion and Lillie managed to make off with high-priority pokemon―especially Lillie, who she supposed didn't have a criminal bone in her body. She led her grunts running down the hallway, soon coming across a stairwell and plummeting down a floor. Far behind them, anxious footsteps hammered, and a radio buzzed for back-up.

The grunts, gleeful and excited, panted loudly around her, thumping and throwing their limbs about; as a group, they moved sloppily but with force, like a heavy liquid slamming and flowing through obstacles.

They hit the lower floor, pushed through a few guards―one grunt was snatched and left behind to try and wiggle out of the guard's grip―and after turning several corners, hurrying past unrelated employees, and tearing around, they miraculously found him.

He was talking to someone in a lab coat, handing them his pokeballs. He also started shrugging off his coat and undoing his scarf. He only turned when the pounding of feet got close enough behind him, and one of the grunts cried out upon seeing him.

"Big G!"

Startled, he turned around. There it was again―the deer-in-headlights look.

"Boss!"

They trampled forward and suddenly skidded to a halt into a busy clamor of bodies in front of him. Some hands reached out from the group, attempting to pull on him. Security plowed into them from behind, starting to yank them by their arms and collars. Everything erupted into shouting.

"Leggo me!"

"Where you been?"

"Why ain't you call, G?"

"Stop!"

"Help us, Big G!"

A scuffle broke out when one security officer tried to grab Plumeria by the shoulder, but as Guzma processed this flood of activity, he interrupted before it could explode into a full-on riot. He roared. "Hey! _Cut it out_!"

Gradually, the movement slowed to a still; grunts froze and the security officers clung to their shirts.

Looking mightily peeved, Guzma gave them all a brief glance and shook his head. "What are y'all―?" He huffed and motioned the security team. "Let 'em go."

"Mr. Guzma, sir―"

"Did I stutter? I'll take care of it!"

To the grunts' surprise, Guzma's command was followed; the team backed off, dropping their hold on them, and with another bark, they (and the lab coat) were sent away. The grunts marveled for a moment, basking in their boss's newfound ability to command authority figures.

"Yeah, that's right!"

"You show 'em!"

"Shut up," Guzma said. He didn't look amused, or very happy to see them. He kept darting his eyes around, like he expected a trap. He finally noticed Plumeria's presence, and gave her a vulnerable, almost ashamed look. "God―what are you _doing_ here?"

About twenty contradictory answers popped out of the various kids' mouths― _here to save you, to see you, to bring you back, to help you, to party, to see them monsters, to_ ―

"Okay!" He lifted a hand to still their endless stream of chatter, and growled. "Geez, you guys nuts!? You're gonna get me―" He cut himself off and sucked his teeth. His eyes rolled up with intense thought, then he swivelled his head about, looking for any sign of Lusamine. Seeing none of her, he sighed and motioned for them to move with him. "Just, c'mon, already. We'll go to my suite. Don't do nothin' stupid, all right?"

* * *

To Guzma's very evident dismay, the grunts scattered through his suite immediately upon entering, touching, manhandling, and upturning his belongings. He instinctively barked after them―"Don't break nothin'!"―and looked embarrassed at being so quick to scold them.

Plumeria didn't run, but didn't acknowledge him either. She followed in after them, stuffing her hands into her pockets, and while they scurried about, she planted herself on the chair at the small dining table.

Even the ones who had preached loudest against his selling out found it easy to enjoy the fruits of his betrayal: they collapsed onto his furniture, pawed at his boxes of brand-new clothing, pulled bottles of beer from his fridge, and leaped for his entertainment and sound system. A large, brilliantly-colored congratulatory bouquet sent by the Board of Directors sat on the counter in the kitchen; Guzma had never in his life received a bouquet, so he didn't know what to do with it. Some female grunts found it and, in short order, tore apart the arrangement in their attempt to admire it.

And although Guzma had to spend the next few minutes stalking around, forbidding them various things― _get out of my bed, that ain't a_ ** _toy_** _, no I'm not turning on the jacuzzi, get outta there_ ―it struck him that for once, his suite looked lived in. They settled into seats, or sat on pillows on the floor, and babbled loud and hard. While a few of the kids arranged themselves at the TV for a tournament, someone else had figured out the sound system, and before he could interrupt, they momentarily blasted the pure, heavenly melancholy of a piano nocturne .

"Yo, what _is_ this?"

"It's―" Guzma stormed across the living room, grappling the remote from the grunt and snarling. "Gimme that."

"Play something that's _good_."

"Put some real music on," another complained.

Guzma barely, just barely, kept himself from starting an argument over it. This was all wrong. Too intimate. The notes, the ivory plucking over the brawny hum of piano strings―it was like letting them listen in on a fantasy. (Lusamine played piano; he discovered this one day after visiting her mansion and coming across the music room, and found her seated before the grand instrument, her hands dancing over the vast swathe of keys. He was so captivated that he stood there, watching, not daring to interrupt. He memorized the piece she played, down to every note, until he could figure out its name and find a recording.)

"Big G."

He still held the remote, still strained to hear a few more notes. It hurt, like severing a finger, to think of cutting it off just before _that_ note, the one that hit high, clear, orgastically―

The whining started to mix with the sound of the video game system, which the others promptly started playing. "Yo, G, the _music_ ―"

Without saying anything more, Guzma switched it off, shuffled through his playlist, and selected an appropriately rhythmic, bass-thudding song. The choice appeased them, and they spoke no more on it, though his head still tickled ivories a little, at the back of his brain.

The younger grunts occupied themselves fairly easily with the entertainment system, leaving the several oldest to sit in a small circle about him, sipping beer and trying to get his story out of him. Plumeria remained in her seat outside of it, and hadn't made any attempt at involving herself in the conversation, but none of them paid it any mind.

Chops and Bully talked the most. They were the definition of drinking buddies; that is, they were only his buddies when they were drinking. They had always deluded themselves into thinking them closest to Guzma, though even as older grunts, they were several years below his age. They were usually funny and irreverent enough to put up with. As they blathered, Guzma found time to think about things, primarily about how this all felt. He figured at least some of Team Skull would show up at some point―maybe not so soon. Now that they were here, he felt himself falling easily back into old patterns, sitting with his legs relaxed and splayed out, slouching, slurring his answers, laughing at bad jokes. That it happened so quickly and easily unnerved him. All this time of refinement―of living with people of success and grandeur―swept away in an instant.

This thought made him frown and flick his eyes over the room. As comfortable as he was becoming, he also felt that unreachable itch again. A sense of separation. Like he didn't fully recognize them, nor they, him.

Bully asked him point-blank, "How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Them beasts," Bully said, inarticulately.

"I tracked 'em. Caught 'em." Guzma withheld some details to make the bragging that much more convincing.

"So you captured 'em all yourself?"

"Yeah."

Bully nodded gravely to him, then to Chops, and declared, "You shoulda asked us for help. We woulda backed you, fam."

Guzma shrugged. "Nah. Cops everywhere. Was better off alone."

They considered his reasoning, and seemed to find it satisfactory.

Zazi, thinking on it, asked, "You gonna be arrested?"

"What? Nah. I got lawyers now. Cops can't come near me."

"You got lawyers!?" Bully, finding this hilarious, slapped his knee and screeched with laughter. "Dang, G, you gone corporate!"

Guzma took it as a well-meaning joke, but another part of him was irked by it. He swallowed down his irritation.

"So…" Bully licked his lips nervously. "You ain't comin' back, are you."

Guzma passed his beer between his hands, contemplating his response.

Chops, though, reasoned it out. "Man, if I had a pad like this here, I wouldn't be lookin' back to Po Town neither."

"So, G, who you think oughtta be the new boss? 'Cause I'm thinkin'―"

Guzma, surprised, looked over at Plumeria, who occupied herself with her phone and ignored them. "Ain't Plume running things now?"

"She's a _girl_ ," Chops whined.

"Whatta you, in kindergarten? She ain't no girl," Guzma contradicted. "She's Plumeria. Plus, she's older than all o' you."

Bully, unhappy that he had not received Guzma's blessing to take over the gang, slouched even further back in his seat. "Shoot. Just 'cause y'all were an item."

The sly comment, this time, was not taken as a joke. The circle quieted as they saw Guzma's posture change, stiffening and readying for a fight. " _Little boy_ ," Guzma said, his eyes settling on him icily, "you better step off. You give Plume trouble, I'll come to Po Town myself to whup your―"

―The door buzzed.

"I'll get it!" Zazi yelped helpfully, jumping up and running for it.

By the time Guzma realized what she was doing, it was too late. She opened the door―and Lusamine stood on the other side.

* * *

For a horrible, unfathomable moment, Guzma froze in his seat. He could see her from where he was, and thoughts flew through his brain at light speed, smashing into each other, making his expression twitch and change. When he powered past his shock and stood to his feet, he rushed over to the door, grabbed Zazi by the arm, and shoved her back into the room, ignoring her complaining.

"Miss L―"

Lusamine greeted him kindly. "Kahuna Guzma."

Frantically, he tried to read her expression. It was too late to lie or obscure her view of things, so he started to say, "They were just gonna―"

But Lusamine, smiling sweetly, touched his arm and brushed past him at his shoulder. "I heard you had visitors." She walked through the entryway, leaving him frozen in place and staring at the door once he closed it. She stood before the living area, gazing out on the gaggle of children. She beamed at them. "My! What an interesting group you've chosen to host."

Team Skull, in all their snot-nosed, vulgar glory, sat completely still in their seats, mute and stiffly attentive. The room suddenly felt much like a classroom with the principal walking through; no one breathed so much as an errant syllable.

"Well, good evening, boys and girls," she said to them in an appropriate teacherly tone. She smiled down on them with a vibrant glow. "I hope you're enjoying your visit so far."

Not a word. One grunt fidgeted uncomfortably, and a few others exchanged tense glances.

"And Plumeria! What a surprise! It has been ages since I've seen you."

Plumeria said nothing, keeping stone-faced. Though Lusamine read the resentment in her, the woman gave no attention to it.

"Are you doing well?"

"...Doing okay." The Team Skull Admin folded her arms and shifted her eyes in Guzma's direction, but Guzma remained turned toward the door, refusing to face them.

"How wonderful. I only wish you could have told us you were coming―we might have arranged something!"

Plumeria privately thought, _Yeah, like extra security_.

"Perhaps you'd like something to eat."

Plumeria tried to quickly rebuff the offer, because she knew her kids thought with their stomachs and would jump at any offer for food, but to her surprise, Slip, the smallest kid, lept to his feet. He shook with excitement, and in some combination of fear, eagerness, and stupidity, he blurted out, "M-ma'am! Thanks an' all! But we don't need nothin', see! We just wanna bring Big G back to be Boss again, see!"

They nearly _died_. Plumeria shot him a look of pure murder, the grunts clapped hands over their faces to suppress their laughter, and Guzma shot around, his face twisted with―something. Not quite rage. Though he did look ready to sock the kid.

Lusamine, pretending not to notice their variety of reactions, gazed down at the child, taking in his form with her piercing green eyes, noting his ratty hair, his ill-fitted clothing, his unmatched socks, his oversized shoes. She stepped toward him. They held their breath, like they expected her to shout and scold him for his ridiculous comment.

Instead, she laughed lightly and reached out, petting Slip in affectionate, doting strokes through his tousled brown hair. "My, you are a darling little boy," she cooed, tittering even more as she saw the boy's face flush with embarrassment. "How old are you, dear? You look about my son's age."

The kids all choked on their snickers as Slip clammed up and turned a bright red.

Lusamine started to vaguely smooth his face with her fingers and pinch his crimson cheeks as she looked up at them again. "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, won't you?"

"Yes'm," another grunt piped up, unable to contain himself.

"Now―I hope you don't mind―may I borrow Guzma a moment? I must speak with him about something."

They understood she wasn't asking permission, so they didn't respond. She floating back around, leading Guzma out the door and leaving them alone.

As soon as the two reached the hall, the children inside roared. Their nerves broke out into cackling, cursing, and crowing; they hurled mocking jeers in Slip's direction. _Mommy-y-y! Slip's got a new―!_

Guzma cringed and shut the door hurriedly. He followed her a little ways down the hall, and was so certain he was in trouble, that an apology burst out of him before she could even begin. "I'm sorry, Miss L―they're stupid―but they're not doing nothing― _anything_ ―bad, I promise, we're just―"

Lusamine lifted a hand to silence him. "'Aether Kahuna Guzma.'"

He stopped and looked at her in confusion.

"I need you to reflect on what those words mean to you."

He tried to read her expression. He didn't see any anger, and somehow, that bothered him even more.

"You are a representative of the Aether Foundation now. You are being paid―generously―to uphold certain values. Do you not agree?"

"'Values'? I'm not―"

"Your friends are members of a criminal organization: the antithesis of our Foundation's mission. Besides, doesn't it seem―" She paused for a moment, and pressed a hand to her chest. "I don't mean to be unkind, but it seems to me, at least, that they are rather beneath you."

 _Beneath me_. Was that what it was? That feeling he had, as he sat with them, wanting to belong but unable to? Was that the wall he sensed between himself and them, that made them look so much smaller?

"The people we surround ourselves with either build us up into the best version of ourselves, or drag us down. So think carefully, Guzma. Who do you want to be?"

He did think. Carefully. He gnawed the inside of his cheek, looked sheepishly at her, then turned his head a little, hearing their belting laughter and thumping around, and he weighed between them―her promise and perfection, and their juvenile delinquency. He hadn't thought it would be so hard, to actually verbalize what he wanted, but he struggled all the same. "I want―" His voice hitched. His fists clenched at his side, face scrunched like he anticipated the sting of ripping a bandage from skin. "The best version of myself."

His answer pleased her. She placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Enjoy your time with your friends."

* * *

Upon re-entering his suite, he found they had finished mocking Slip and returned to their mucking about. They barely greeted him. He felt a million miles from them―

He made his way back over to Chops and Bully, in time for Bully to ask, "So, G, that lady―she's your boss?"

A grunt, overhearing, protested, "Boss ain't got no boss!"

"She―" Guzma shrugged, ignoring the latter, ignorant comment. "Yeah, kinda. I mean, she pays me an' all―"

Zazi cut him off. She had been poking around on his mostly-bare shelves, but got bored of that and thought to interrogate him instead. "What's she like?"

Before Guzma could answer, Chops cut in rudely, pulling on his eyelids to demonstrate, "She's got them creep eyes."

Guzma, shocked at the disrespect, shot back hotly. "No, she doesn't."

But his words seemed to immediately become lost in the grunts' chatter.

"She's like, my mom's age? And she looks like that?"

"Is she a vampire?"

"She _probably_ had surgery―like, she even _looks_ plastic."

"I heard her husband disappeared, yo."

"Maybe she _ate_ him."

The group erupted into giggles and snorts.

Guzma had been enormously patient. He tried, really tried, to bottle his frustration and let them have their fun. But after a minute of swigging his beer and digging his nails into his palm, listening to the slander spiral, he couldn't contain it. His expression darkened and purpled, and he snarled threateningly, "Shut up!"

He realized too late it was the _worst_ thing he could have possibly said. They all froze to look at him, their mouths puckering with realization.

"O-o-oh, snap," Chops gasped, covering his mouth. "Ya'll jonin' on Big G's _girl_."

Guzma snorted and averted his eyes. Denying it would only get them more excited, so he stayed silent.

"G, you crushing on some grandma? That's _sick_ , yo! Ha, ha!" Bully whistled. "No lie, though, can she adopt me, too? I wouldn't mind sitting in that lap either, ha, ha!"

* * *

Plumeria, on instinct, jumped up from her seat. She knew the look on Guzma's face, and knew Bully had really done it.

In quick succession, it all fell apart: Guzma shot out a right hook, knocking Bully to the floor; beer bottles clashed onto the floor, splashing booze everywhere; Guzma cussed and spat on him, tried to fall on top of him so that he could pin him for another series of blows. Every nearby grunt rushed forward, grappling Guzma's limbs, dragging him back and begging him to calm down.

"Chill out, G! Chill!"

With his arms mostly pulled behind him, he sent out his left foot to stomp Bully's ribs. Zazi dove to drag the squealing Bully across the floor and out of his reach. Plumeria then appeared and stood between the froth-mouthed Guzma and Bully. She watched for a moment as Guzma writhed under the weight of several kids, snarling like a rabid animal. She didn't looked impressed, but said to him, "G, he's an idiot. Let it go."

At least it _seemed_ her words calmed him, because he stopped pulling forward or trying to wrestle off their hold. His expression remained twisted and cold; he slumped, relaxing his muscles until they felt comfortable letting him go. The music still thudded away, and the video game still whirled its colors on the television screen, but everything else was dead silent and still.

Guzma at last spoke. "Party's over," he growled. "Everybody out."

They all stared at him, as if they didn't believe him.

"Whatta you gawkin' at! Huh? I said party's over!" He stooped down, grabbed a bottle, and hurled it, smashing it against the television. A sputtering spark jumped from the cracked screen, snapping loudly, causing everyone to jerk and start slinking for the door. Bully limped with Zazi― Slip audibly sniffled―

He didn't wait to escort them out; his point made, he stormed to the sliding door out to the balcony, opened it, stepped through, and slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

Plumeria followed him out to the balcony, and for the first time that night, they stood to face one another.

Plumeria studied him. Nanu was right―he had gained weight. Not excessively, or anything, just noticeable enough to fill out his normally gaunt, bony form. The bit of fat in his cheeks made his face softer and more mature-looking. His hair looked almost silky and had a salt-and-pepper color to it, because his black roots had grown in, largely overtaking the white. That hair of his, that she was so used to seeing stuck out in a prickly mass of tangles, now rested gently over his face and head, feathered and combed. Behind him, the sea opened out, the shadows of the islands visible on the horizon.

"So, you ready to talk?" she asked him.

Guzma looked blankly at her, almost through her.

"I thought you were dead, you know. I thought―"

Suddenly, Guzma's expression fell. "You shouldn't have come here," he said, interrupting her.

She put her hands to her hips. "Why? Because ' _she'_ doesn't want us here?"

" _It's not her_." He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. "I know what you're doing," he went on. His voice sounded raw, strained with the tension he had kept hidden the entire night. "I know―what you're tryin' to do. Coming here. But Team Skull's dead, Plume. It's _been_ dead. If you wanna keep playin' cops and robbers with a bunch o' kids―feel free. But I've moved on, all right? I got things to do― I got people counting on me, and I have to think about what's best for my image―I have to―"

Plumeria exploded. "Oh my god! Who is even _talking_ right now!"

The accusation lit him with sudden rage. "This is _me_!" Knotted, winding cords of thought caught up with him, looping around, tangling. "Look―I was―I was exactly how you wanted me to be. Right?" As the words fumbled out, each more disconnected than the last, he felt his frustration build. He tugged on his ring, anger leaping into his throat. "And it was fun, while it lasted, all right? But you don't know me, Plume. None of you do. Don't you get it? I was just pretending― I was just― "

He lost track again, and went quiet for a moment.

"This is who I really am. Who I'm meant to be."

"So." Plumeria narrowed her eyes at him. "You're 'meant' to be a tool? A trophy for some lady who sees you as a big charity case―?"

He looked hurt, but not surprised. He snorted and spewed, as hatefully as he could, "She was _right_ about you."

 _She sees Guzma at fifteen and mumbling, getting the courage to touch one of her braids and confess that he liked her hair. She pushes him and calls him a dork, but she's flattered, really―_

"You're in my way, Plume."

 _She sees the rooftop of Shady House, where they lay and looked at the stars as they glinted above them, on long nights when there was nothing to do. They breathe, and talk about things they never told anybody before―_

"You've _always_ been in my way."

 _She sees him stagger, face bruised and bloody, knuckles torn, after fighting with one of her crew; he smiles proudly through the pain, showing her that he'd won._

...How had she missed it?

...How had she… not noticed… The eyes Lusamine gave her, the way that woman leaned into his ears, told him things…

...How after Plumeria stopped visiting Aether Paradise along with him, he returned from the visits a little colder, a little more withdrawn...

"When I told you I was gonna try to be captain―do you remember what you said?"

Plumeria cringed.

"You―you said it was stupid, it was lame... And when I went for it anyway, and I got _creamed_ ―you kept saying, 'don't worry about it, who would want such a lame gig, anyway?'" He balled his hands into fists. "At the time―you know, I thought you didn't believe in me. That you knew I was gonna get creamed, so you were trying to let me down easy―it really messed me up―" He shook, surprised at how much the memory still wounded him.

"Guz…"

She was going to spout excuses. He snapped at her, peaked with rage. "But now I know! It wasn't that you thought I'd lose―you were afraid I'd make it! Because you've always hated it, whenever I tried to be somebody!"

* * *

Plumeria wanted to tell the truth.

When they first met, both distressingly young and immature, and mistook the initial smash of hormones for true love, she encountered but did not know how to handle his flaws. They would sit in dark places, draped over each other, spilling secrets about stupid things as teenagers do: bad poetry, bad parents, bands they liked, dreams they held onto. He was the worst of it. A clumsy kisser, a clumsier poet, and the clumsiest dream-chaser she ever knew. And he measured his self-worth strictly by his successes and failures, as he chose to label them.

At first she thought his habit of private self-detriment was cute. _Augh, stupid, I'm an idiot, what's wrong with me―_

But the longer they stayed together, the more frightening it became. She found herself pulling him down from ledges, chasing him down before he destroyed himself.

Thirteen―god, she was a baby then, didn't know the first thing about psychology. The only consolation she could dream up in her adolescent head was an attitude she had built for herself, to ward off her own demons. _Who cares, Guzma? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters._

* * *

Plumeria, now, wished she could say: I'm sorry. I was a stupid kid, trying to tell you something I didn't know how to say.

But she was no saint. The wounds he had lanced into her, leaving her bleeding in the open… She snarled, holding back tears. "If that's how you feel, Guzma, then―" She snorted. "I guess I better leave."

"Yeah," he said. He turned back to the sea, tracing his vision over the blinking, vibrant islands. "I guess you better."

* * *

Plumeria left, but he didn't watch her go.

He felt numb and mutilated, but for that he blamed _her,_ blamed her for not being what he desperately wanted, or thought he needed. He looked back on those years they spent together, wondering what he ought to feel for them―Nostalgia? Joy? Belonging? And instead, it was nothing, and nothing, and nothing. _Her fault_. The mantra drilled in his brain, ground between his teeth: _Her fault_.

Guzma was so busy swearing against her, trampling on every happy memory of her, that he hardly noticed when her opposite entered his suite and stood a little ways off.

"Are your friends gone already?"

Startled, he jumped up, clasped a hand to his face, and realized, to his humiliation, that there was moisture there. He hatefully smudged it away, praying Lusamine wouldn't notice. A bit of phlegm sucked down his throat as he swallowed and tried to say, "Yeah, they couldn't stay."

Though he didn't look at her, she continued their conversation, approaching and standing at his side. "It was quite an opening day. Twenty-two battles, and no losses. You really ought to let someone win occasionally," she said, half-joking. "No one will want to pay for an impossible fight."

"It was easy," he said, his voice flat and unhappy. He flung his arms over the railing.

She read his restlessness, but pretended to misattribute it. "There will come greater challengers―even stronger trainers. It won't stay boring for long."

"Whatever."

A moment of silence passed, and in time, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "...I know this is hard," Lusamine said, her voice rolling into tender consolation. "Success… has a way of revealing to us the people who were holding us back."

―He wants to think it's true. He does feel a lightness now, like a weight has been cut away, but he can't sense if the lightness feels right.

"Guzma." She reached out and smoothed her hand over his forehead. "I'm so very proud of you."

He wasn't ready to be praised―wasn't in the right mindset for it―but the touch swept away the blackness of his mood. He lifted his body a little, standing up and turning toward her, and her hand stayed there a moment, cool against the perspiration beading on his brow. Then her delicate, manicured nails dragged gently down his face, triggering happy, sizzling little pops of nerve endings as they tickled the surface of his skin. He sucked in a quick breath between his teeth.

* * *

In his nocturnal tossings and turnings, when he still imagined her, no matter how vulgar or loutish his fantasies became, he could not wrest free of the gentleness of his imagined first kiss: seraphic, as if it could escape the trappings of corporeal form, pure, ethereal somehow, a thing without taste or touch, just light and warmth finding him. And at the same time, he fantasized of a passionate undercurrent to it, rumbling deep below, so that it shook his feet. Guzma was acutely aware of the idiocy of these contradictions―that he desired both touch and non-touch, evanescent air and substantial ground.

But while his psyche dithered and circled uselessly, Lusamine took action. She had to negotiate their height difference by pulling him down and lifting herself onto her toes, and pressed her lips to his. It was not long, and it was not particularly passionate; it had taste and touch, the chalkiness of her lipstick, the warm, silken skin of her mouth. But his heart still felt like it might fight its way from his ribcage, battering and punishing the interior of his chest. He, for a lack of a manlier word, started to swoon.

And where a man would have taken hold of her hips, or slid his hands up along her back, drawing her up into him, the boy in him won out, causing him to flounder and stuff his hands inside his jacket pockets. He felt too dumb to bring them out again, and anyway, the kiss ended, as did most of his humiliation at the flub.

She pulled away and marveled at his stupefied expression. A quick smile teased him. "What's the matter?"

He had to choke to manage to say, "Nothing."

"Guzma, you look surprised," she whispered, laughing a little. "Did you think me… unattainable?"

 _Astronomically,_ Guzma thought, or would have thought, if he had access to the word. In his fevers, she was a pillar of fire, meant to be admired and worshipped from a polite distance, on which he could wax poetic but not dare ever touch. As much as he felt thrill, he felt a powerful sensation of having done something terribly wretched.

"You always give yourself such little credit," she sighed. She pushed a lock of his hair behind his ear with her finger. "So from now on, I want you to dream, Guzma. Dream tremendous dreams―impossible dreams―because as long as you are here, nothing is out of your reach."

He absorbed the promise like gospel, wondered if it meant another kiss, or another touch, or something even more tremendous. But she dropped her hands from him and bid him good night.

Once she was gone, his head still buzzed, hummed, and vibrated. _If I take a single step_ , he thinks, _I'm going land head-first into the floor._ So he turned back to the railing and leaned on it to keep himself steady.

Guzma looked out and identified Mele'mele from the several blotches of black floating on the surface of the sea, and saw its form sinking into twilight. It looked so tiny. So far, far away.

When at last his strength returned to him, he entered his suite, shut off the lights, selected his music, and collapsed his long body over the couch. He shut his eyes, letting the now-familiar nocturne float through his emptying mind, swirling with saccharine tones that had once been as alien to him as another language. His fingers twitched and rippled in dim imitation of the movement he had seen in her, trying and not quite managing to follow its rhythm. He listened, and listened, as if to unlock its secrets. And over time, he let the music paint a vision of his sweet, torrid, ever-nearing fate, and the satisfaction that would come when he could hit that highest, pearly note.

He thought of hands and fingers, and their capable plucking of keys. Though exhausted, he could not sleep a wink.


	13. C'est La Vie

**Chapter 13: C'est La Vie**

* * *

Every relationship with a girl Guzma ever had could be summed up similarly: nasty, brutish, and short.

Perhaps it was because he tended to live in abstractions. From a young age, he was prone to fits of intense fantasy and obsession, and life experience proved that Guzma often liked the _idea_ of things, more than the things themselves. This held especially true for his romantic entanglements. Guzma liked the _idea_ of being in love. He liked the idea of having a girlfriend, of dating, of being together. But it seemed every time he sank his teeth into the tangible reality of it, he could not help but self-implode. It would start, spark, sputter, then crash, often all in one week. Among Team Skull grunts, it simply became known: don't bother going down that road. Even Plumeria, whom it could be said had the bragging right of having the best relationship with him, would, if asked, flatly recommend staying away.

Perhaps it was, too, the malicious strain of misogyny that ran through him; it did not surface in everyday encounters, and certainly didn't disrupt his ability to casually interact with women in most contexts. No, this ran deeper than at the skin―it was a set of deep-seated beliefs about women that shaped every disaster of a relationship he ever had. Women, he truly thought, were weak. Pushovers. Stupid. Inferior in all the ways he believed he ought to be superior to them.

Plumeria was spared some of these judgments. Maybe it was because they were friends first and afterwards. Sometimes he rationalized it by telling himself she "wasn't like other girls," and maybe it was true. When he dated her, and he began talking smack at her, she didn't put up with it. She wasn't weak. That's what he liked―what he thought he liked. Though if he were honest, it was about that time he lost romantic interest in her, and his attention swayed towards those who had sufficient weakness for him to resent and overpower.

Once, a long time after they broke up, he even made the mistake of telling her that he thought of her as a guy. She didn't let him get away with that, either.

 _Like, when we were making out, too?_

He'd pull his hair and turn colors. _Augh, no, geez, Plume, I don't mean it like_ ** _that_** _, okay!_

If he thought about it―and he really didn't―he wouldn't be able to explain Lusamine.

Certainly, he thought of her as a woman. Materially, she was perhaps the most feminine thing he had ever laid eyes on―her eyes, her lips, her hips, the slope of her breasts and legs, and... he could go on, and often did, while lying awake at night, drenched in anticipatory sweat.

She was―what?―an iconoclast, a symbol of dramatic change. She smashed his images, made a fool of him.

So yes―she had command of him for now. She could smile and send him into a tizzy; she could tell him what to do, and he obeyed like a loyal pet. She had intellect, beauty, and access to wisdom that he desperately needed, so he put up with it and tried to enjoy its collateral benefits.

(But secretly… Secretly… In those same nights of lying awake… Thoughts pawed under the closed door of his psyche, thoughts about how small she was, how physically she was no match for him, how much he'd like to make a fool of her for once…)

(So he watched her in those following weeks of courtship, sitting in shadows of hallways with tense haunches, eyes beady, salivating, face dripping with ruddy lust. Sometimes, she looked so very small, huntable, and crunchable, like a mouse.)

* * *

At eight o' clock sharp, Guzma arrived in time for breakfast in the tea room.

This was a new habit; for nearly all his life, breakfast was a non-word―at best a meal he could sleep through without consequence. And though he had started to report to breakfast every morning, dragging himself out of bed at what for him qualified as an ungodly hour, he still didn't _eat_ much of anything.

He attended for different reasons.

Lusamine was already seated in her chair by the time he arrived that morning, having arrived minutes earlier and not willing to wait around for him. She had selected her pasty from an array of baked goods on a platter in the middle of the table, poured her coffee with sweet cream, and placed a folded newspaper in her hand, browsing its contents. She glanced up at him only briefly before returning her eyes to the headlines.

"Good morning."

"Morning."

He found his seat, but didn't move to take anything. His drink waited for him.

Guzma proceeded in his morning devotional, seated at this altar of delicate, clinking china and silver spoons. Through the room flowed the incense of berry jam and sweet fruit, and the perfume of freshly-baked bread. He spent those minutes watching her eat, and trying to not _look_ as if he was watching her. Her hands moved smoothly over her cup, over her knife as she spread jam, over the flaky bread that she slipped in small pieces into her mouth.

Finally, she spoke up.

"The press certainly has a one-track mind as of late."

Guzma, caught off guard by her comment, glanced over at the paper she had just placed flat on the table. He saw pictures. Of them. In one photograph, they walked together, Lusamine's arm around his, and her other hand pressing against his chest, balancing against him. They appeared to be in a hurry; they looked downward, and not at each other.

The other picture, though taken from his back, clearly depicted a kiss.

Guzma bounced his eyes away. He hated it―hated having those moments printed on ink and paper, as if they were mere specimens, biology to be recorded and flattened.

"War and sex."

Guzma jumped. "H-huh?"

"It's what the industry runs on," she said, dryly. "And there hasn't been enough war to sell papers."

"Uh, yeah, I guess." He fiddled with his coffee, as she insisted on serving him. It had a swirl of milk poured into it, giving it a subtle sweetness that made it more tolerable. He choked down a sip.

Lusamine studied him a second, then glanced down at his empty plate. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm not hungry." His eyes could not stop from flitting to the paper, over and over. Finally, he muttered, "They shouldn't…" He trailed off.

"Yes? They shouldn't what?"

"They shouldn't―!" He gave her an emphatic, loyal look. "The stuff they say―about you―it isn't true, so they oughta shut their mouths!"

"If it upsets you," she said, calmly folding her hands into her lap, "you should avoid reading it. There isn't anything you or I can do about it."

"But…" He shuffled his feet under the table, restless with repressed rage. "They still oughta shut up, I think."

"I can't blame them too much," Lusamine went on, shrugging slightly. She sipped at her coffee. "We have given them quite the material for mastication."

Guzma gave her a look of complete shock and disgust. "W-what? God, gross―"

She was baffled at first, then put a hand to her temple as she sighed. " _Masticate_. It means 'to chew.'"

"Oh-h! Oh." He sputtered, his disgust immediately turning into embarrassment, and looked down at the floor. He scratched behind his ear. "Could've just… said _that_ …"

"What I mean to say is, I _am_ old enough to be your mother."

"Y-yeah, but―but you _aren't_."

She smiled at his earnest reasoning. "My darling. In some ways, you are so very innocent."

He didn't know what she meant by that, and frowned at hearing it.

"Anyhow. Public life requires a certain thickness of skin, Guzma. When I was a model, I faced scathing criticism every day. One must learn to distinguish between that which is genuine―and that which is rooted in jealousy. Use the former; ignore the latter. It's really that simple."

At that, Lusamine finished her breakfast, tidied herself, and motioned that she wished to stand. When he brought out her chair and followed her to the doorway, he stole a touch, taking her arm with his hand, making a desperate hint that he wanted affirmation of some kind. A reward―a reassurance.

She didn't push him away―not exactly. But she maneuvered her arm in such a way that it slipped from his grip.

"I'm going to the garden," she said, with all the meaning that remained behind it―its persisting forbidding, its shutting of a door.

She floated out of reach.

* * *

Morning glistened its light upon the garden, making it sparkling and new. On the bench under the elm, which sat just before the long stretch of the reflecting pool, Lusamine had already settled herself, her skirt falling low over her legs, and her silken shawl draping about her shoulders. The mornings were not as warm as they once were, hence the shawl, but the sun cast a gentle heat on the trees and grass, making it comfortable to walk without wearing heavy clothing. The skies were open and an intoxicating cerulean, pouring their color over the surface of the pool.

She held open a book on her lap. She looked up from it in surprise upon hearing his footsteps, but she also looked a little pleased at his boldness in following her.

"Guzma," she greeted. "Did you need something?"

"No."

She waited for him to say something, but when he didn't, she patted the space next to her. "Would you like to sit with me?"

He didn't answer, but crossed the grass and the cobblestone pathway and sat inelegantly onto the bench, mere inches from her. No conversation started upon his seating, so instead of talking, Lusamine continued to read, and Guzma sank into his thoughts. He was still not very good at sitting serenely; he shifted, sniffed and snorted his breaths like a buffalo, crossed and uncrossed his feet, and squirmed his unoccupied hands about his pockets and clothing. At last, whatever tormented him came out. "I'm sorry, Miss L," he blurted.

"Hmm?"

"Whatever―I did." He kicked at the cobblestone and wouldn't meet her eyes. "To make you mad at me―"

Lusamine gave him a soft, concerned look. "Darling, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

This wasn't strictly true. Lusamine had, as time gone by, experimentally withdrawn herself, little by little. It was time, she decided, to find his layers. To discover what psychological mettle he had after all.

Guzma looked at her in that moment, pining painfully but unable to articulate this new, prescribed distance. With no other way to explain himself, he chose to go silent and accept her terms.

Lusamine paused her reading to look out over the pool and opposite side of the garden―its trees, its finely-cut hedges. For a long moment, she stayed quiet just like that, gazing out, eyes peering deeply into something Guzma could not see. A Swanna drifted its snowy form over the water, looping its neck in a relaxed pose; he felt the shade overhead steepen in color somehow, as an errant cloud touched the edge of the sun.

"Gladion was such a clever little boy," she suddenly said, voice frail, and eyes not moving.

The comment shocked Guzma; he had never, ever heard her talk about her son, not since he came to live at Aether Paradise.

Lusamine went on, "He taught himself to read by the time he was three. He could pick up any book in our library and read it aloud, with such confidence and emotion. After Lillie was born, I would bring her out in the garden, for the fresh air―we would sit right here―and he would read to us." She placed her hand atop the open page and shut her eyes, like she could envision it; as she described it, Guzma thought he could picture it, too. "This was our favorite book of poems―do you like poetry, Guzma?"

"I, uh, I dunno." Guzma must have had some contact with poems in school, but his memories of that had turned murky at best. Though he knew a few nursery rhymes and limericks merely by osmosis, he suspected that's not what she meant.

"Here." She slowly turned a few pages, her memory so strong that she found what she was looking for almost immediately. She smoothed out her choice. "This one. _Le Lac_. I can read it to you. ' _Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages_ …'"

Guzma became flustered. "Miss? I don't―"

"It's all right," she said, her eyes drifting. "You don't have to understand; just listen."

So for the longest time, they sat there as she read the words, her voice thready and slick, the slush of unfamiliar syllables hissing like inaudible whispers. She read, and she read, and just when he could swear it had been half an hour and he thought he was going to lose his patience with it, his hearing of her changed. It became beautiful and strange, mingling with the quiet of the garden and its emergent hum of water, insects, and leaves. The flesh of her arm, which he was allowed to touch as she read, was warm against the back of his fingers; in the length of time that dragged in the shade, he became attuned to it, even feeling the light, fine hairs that made it velveteen and soft.

When she stopped, he grieved the words' ending. In the ensuing silence, he decided to ask, "What's it mean?"

"Oh, it's about love―and loss―"

"Nah, I mean… is there a translation or something?"

"It's rather long," she said, apologizing in advance.

"It's―it's okay, I wanna hear it."

She clearly hadn't expected this request, but looked pleased to have received it. She smiled, turned the page, and went on to read:

 _As you roared beneath these deep rocks,_

 _Smashed your waters against their torn sides,_

 _So the wind threw the foams of your billows_

 _Onto her feet beloved._

 _._

 _One night, remember? As we cruised along silently,_

 _One heard from afar on the waves under these skies,_

 _Only the noises of rowers who struck in rhythm_

 _Your harmonious waters._

 _._

 _Suddenly of the tones unknown to the earth_

 _Of the charmed shore struck your echoes;_

 _The waves grew attentive, and the voice to me dear_

 _Thus spoke these very words:_

 _._

 _"O time, suspend your flight! and you, blessed hours,_

 _Delay your course!_

 _Let us savor the fleeting delights_

 _Of the happiest days of ours._

 _._

 _"Enough unhappy souls in this world implore you:_

 _Flow on, and for them flow on;_

 _Remove the days with the cares which consume them_

 _And spare the happy ones._

 _._

 _"But in vain I ask for a few moments more,_

 _Time evades me, and takes flight._

 _I say to this night, "Tarry." But the dawn_

 _Will dissipate the night._

 _._

 _"So let us love, let us love; and the transient hour_

 _Let's enjoy in a hurry;_

 _Man has no harbor, time no shores;_

 _It flows, we fade after!"  
_

 _._

 _Jealous time, can it be that these drunken moments_

 _When love fills us with bliss to overflow_

 _Fly from us at the same speed_

 _As do our days of woe?_

 _._

 _Let the wind that groans and the reeds that sigh_

 _The gentle perfume of your balmy air,_

 _Let all that is heard or seen or breathed_

 _All say: "In love they were." **_

 _**(_ excerpt from _'_ Le Lac' by Lamartine _)_

* * *

"It's pretty," Guzma said. It was the highest praise he could offer, in lieu of actually understanding any of it, aside from the occasional clasping for images or words. Immediately after speaking, he felt like a dweeb. ' _Pretty_?' Really?

"You think so, too? I'm glad." She placed her hands atop her lap. "Did you understand its meaning?"

He didn't expect to be called out. He scratched at a spot behind his ear. "Uh."

But before he could stammer out his excuse, she spoke. "Time," she said, intoning it as if it were a living, breathing being, "can be cruel to us, can't it?"

Guzma blinked at her, crumpling his brow.

"If time were kinder―it would preserve our happiness a little longer. It would extend our joys, and retract our woes. But instead, it outpaces us. So what can we do? We love, and we enjoy in a hurry."

He―thought―he understood. "Like…" He scrawled through his memories. "Like, living in the moment."

"Yes, precisely. It's important, at times, to live in the moment. To not use the future―or the past―as an excuse to eschew the present." She looked down at the script needling between her slender fingers. These thoughts seemed to swim before her, painting on wide, new tapestry; she closed the book and watched the sunlight glimmer across the pool. Then, after silence sat with them for some time, she spoke softly. "I haven't been fair to you."

"Whadda you mean?"

"Darling, I'm sure you know what I mean. Here we are, playing a couple, and we hardly spend time together."

"We're―" Guzma echoed a familiar adult excuse. "We're busy."

For a second, she seemed amused by his comment, but her face turned serious. "I have to tell you something. I think it's important for you to know―so that you understand how things are."

"What is it?"

"I'm still married, Guzma. On paper." After saying this, Lusamine swept her hand beneath her hair, letting the blonde strands fray and fall back into place.

"Oh." He puzzled and distorted his face with thought. "So. Are you…In trouble?"

"'In trouble'?"

"'Cause you're married―and, with me―"

"Oh, no, dear, of course not. Everyone understands―it's really only a technicality. It's certainly no more of a scandal than our age difference." She coyly put a hand to her lips and smiled at him, gently teasing. "Besides, we aren't exactly embroiled in some torrid affair, are we?"

"Uh." He at least knew what the word 'affair' meant, and that was enough to make him turn another color. "Yeah―no―" He ran out of breath and stopped there.

"I hope it hasn't been a burden to you."

He blinked dimly at her, tilting his head. "Huh?"

"After all these years alone and busy running the Foundation―I suppose I've simply fallen into a life of self-denial. I haven't driven you into the arms of a more accommodating woman, have I?"

It took several seconds of very strained thinking for him to process and find words to respond to her. He lurched, buried his free hand in his hair, and deepened in color. "Wh-what!? Nah, I ain't―! Miss, I wouldn't―!"

(He wasn't lying, entirely, but Lusamine knew. His attention had wandered. Several female employees had complained about him: his lurking, his leering. She didn't believe he'd made any attempt behind her back, and neither did she worry too much―her workers were too savvy for that foolishness, and besides, they found him creepy and off-putting.)

Lusamine put a hand on his knee. "I'm only joking."

He calmed, but didn't look completely guiltless, either. He adjusted himself, breaking her touch, and dug his heel into the grass.

"Guzma. Things are going to change soon. I've made a new hire―I've called a special guest here tonight― You see, I've made a decision. One that will ultimately impact us both."

"...Okay."

He didn't understand. She hadn't expected him to. She saw his eyes dart over to her, an eagerness in his face that he continued to hide. "Guzma."

"―Yeah?"

Her eyes softened with amusement. "You're not a little boy. If you wish to kiss me―" She leaned close with a coquettish arch to her lips. "Then _kiss me_."

Clearly reeling from the whiplash between hot and cold, Guzma momentarily lost focus, but at her urging, sensual breath, he turned his seated body toward her, dipped his head, and kissed. He negotiated his arms poorly about, one attempting to wrap around her tiny shoulders, but never quite making it, and his other hand, in a shocking display of boldness, pressed atop her thigh. She purposefully limped, released the tension in her knees, and let her lips rest a touch open.

But his hand didn't move, and his posture didn't change.

Finally, she tired of it, and put a hand to his chest, immediately unravelling their moment of passion. And, as usual, he wilted at the slightest sign of resistance.

Whatever frustration he felt in that moment, she glossed over it with a reassuring smile. "There. Was that so hard?"

Not sure whether the question was rhetorical, he scratched his neck and mumbled. "Um… No."

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to be a little more assertive."

"Sorry."

Lusamine leaned forward to work herself to her feet, book in hand. "And stop apologizing. It gets tiresome."

"I'm s―" He fumbled and blinked hard. "Okay."

One last time, she looked out over the garden, over the song and heat of the morning. In her face, he thought he saw a hint of hope. "What a lovely day it is. Yes... A lovely, lovely day."

* * *

The computer lab, where Faba hunched over a keyboard in furious concentration, was almost entirely dark, aside from the eye-punishing glow of the monitor before him. The motion-sensor lights had long ago ceased to detect life, clicking off, and he hadn't bothered shuffling about the room to get them going again. He was on―what?―his fifth cup of coffee? Sixth? However much it had been, it had powered him through several hours of simulations, and he had yet to be satisfied with them.

Lusamine walked in, the light blinked on in her presence, and she loudly clicked her tongue in disapproval.

"My goodness, it's gloomy down here! Have you been in here all day?"

Faba cringed at the sudden light hitting his eyes, wheeled around in his chair, and huffed at her. "Madame―please."

"You know, it's a lovely day outside. The temperature's about perfect."

"So I've heard from the weather report," he said, dryly.

"When's the last time you've been outside? Taken a stroll? You're looking awfully pallid these days."

"I'll do as I please, thank you. I have plenty to do, even without wasting my time on such frivolities."

"Sunlight gives us crucial vitamins," she reminded him.

"You know that comes in pill form now."

"And the fresh air! To invigorate the senses!"

"―The air down here is finely filtered. It's probably cleaner, liter for liter." He shot her a tired look and rubbed his forehead. "Are there other elements of my lifestyle you'd like to critique now, or can I get back to work?"

Lusamine tittered lightly. "You've always been so resistant to my advice. Ah, but it's no matter. You see, Faba―we have a special guest coming to the labs in a few minutes, and I wanted to offer you fair warning."

"A special guest," he echoed, weighing its connotation, and suspecting she wouldn't explain it if he asked. He shook his head. "I shudder to think."

"You don't want to tidy up? I'd hate for you to be unprepared to make your first impression."

"I think I will do just fine," he said. Faba swung around and faced his work, hoping that the conversation would end there.

"Hmm. Well. While we wait…" She thoughtfully stroked her necklace. "Does Guzma still visit you? Do you still talk?"

The volume and tone to Faba's voice steeply descended. He admitted, gravely and unwillingly, "On occasion."

"Does he ever talk to you about women?"

Faba narrowly missed choking on his coffee. "Oh―god!" He seethed, adjusting his glasses and rolling his eyes up into his head. "Thank the high heavens, _no_ , he does not."

"But does he strike you as…" She searched for the correct word. "Disordered?"

He already didn't like where this was going. He had an answer, but decided to withhold it. He retorted glibly, "You tell me, Madame. You're the one sucking face with him. Besides, I told you I don't want any involvement in your―"

"Yes, I remember. Very well. I do find it helpful to think aloud, though. Feel free to ignore me." She swayed a little, admiring the instruments of the laboratory. "It has kept my mind busy," she said whimsically, "trying to keep my analysis fresh. Every day I learn new things about him. New evidence, to tie together different strands of different theories―"

Faba snorted and was unable to contain his gibes. "...How many theories are you up to now?"

"Oh, it's hard to say. I did have one theory that I've now cast aside."

"Is that so?"

"Early on, I made note of what I thought might be signs of repressed homosexual tendencies. But as I said. That theory died on the vine."

"Oh, how…" Faba grimaced and rolled his eyes. " _Wonderful_ for you."

"It's why he likes you, you know."

Faba swivelled around in his chair to face her, certain that he misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"He's not attracted to men, Faba, but he still has an enormous complex concerning them. He sees them as threats. But you―you're not a threat, you see."

"Ugh." He turned back for the computer and began typing furiously. "I suppose… I suppose I'm meant to feel flattered?"

"You don't have much of a mind for psychology, do you?"

"I've gleaned some over the years," he admitted, "but it isn't my field of expertise."

"Well, I've come to enjoy it very much. One area of psychology I've particularly come to enjoy is that of the criminal mind. I've been perusing its literature for the past few months," she said. "Such fascinating material. Did you know that there are several types of serial rapist?"

Faba stopped typing.

"I've yet to pin his profile down." By now, she was talking mostly to herself. "There are two types in particular with which he shares certain qualities… Insecurity, feelings of inadequacy, anger, resentment… No doubt his penchant for violence has infiltrated his romantic fantasies..."

"Dear _lord_." Faba fumbled with his glasses, resulting in them dropping into his lap. He did not look at her, but he lurched with disgust. "What are you―!"

"Don't get excited. I'm not suggesting he's raped anyone," she went on, ignoring his discomfort. She rolled her bracelet on her wrist, allowing its glimmer to guide her thinking aloud. "To the contrary―I think he has yet to live out his urges. It's strange. One would surmise that in all those years unsupervised with other adolescents, he'd find the means and opportunity. Yet he's so passive. Perhaps he's afraid of his impulses; it would probably take―well, if he were angry enough, I suppose―"

"I can't say I'm following you at all!" Faba snapped at her. He visibly shook as he pushed his glasses back over his face. "I'd appreciate if you left me out of such unappealing, morbid talk!"

Lusamine watched him as he slumped back over his computer. She coolly put a finger to her lips. "I've upset you. I'm sorry. I thought a man of science such as yourself would be able to handle such direct conversation."

Faba didn't reply. He shoved his focus back on the screen, but in the back of his mind, he remained aghast. That woman… That she could have such a sweet, pure exterior, looking as blameless as a saint―and utter such depraved things with ease and calm.

"Oh, my, I think he's arrived," she said, breaking Faba's thought process. "How exciting!"

When Faba caught sight of the individual entering the lab attended by an Aether employee, he was actually surprised. Faba had caught wind of a _different_ guest due today, and so expected to see a stuffy, legal sort from Kalos. Instead, in walked a young man―probably mid-thirties, if he had to guess―dressed in casual attire, black suit jacket over a brand-name printed t-shirt, dark jeans, and van sneakers. The man's face was gentle, smiling, and open, with not a hint of the cynicism that should rightly come with surviving one's youth, and he had a nestling of lush, brown, casually groomed hair. In his hands, he carried a bundle of papers and folders, each collated and sorted by carefully-placed sticky notes. Upon seeing Faba, the man's eyes bulged and brightened, and his grip on his papers tightened; from far away, the scientist read an uncomfortable amount of kinetic energy that looked ready to burst out at any moment.

Faba thought, for a moment, that this was all a tremendous joke on him, or that Lusamine had suffered some kind of stroke. Who was this? Why was she bringing in some shabbily-dressed, trying-too-hard-to-look-twenty grad student? Was he from the press? Some of those reporters wear the stupidest get-ups, all in the name of passing for trendy in the cutthroat world of journalism.

Lusamine greeted the man kindly, brought him to where Faba now stood, and introduced them.

"Faba, I'd like you to meet Professor Aster."

 _Professor!?_

"And of course," she added, speaking to this supposed professor, "this is Branch Chief Faba."

She directed them, and they shook hands. Faba noted that they were just about eye-level in height.

Then, she dropped yet another bombshell. "I've hired Professor Aster to be an Assistant Branch Laboratory Coordinator."

...Quite suddenly, Faba noticed that the man was actually a half-inch taller than him, and immediately resented it. He sputtered in disbelief. "He―what?"

"It's!" Aster belted the word out before he could even let go of Faba's hand. He had a heartfelt, lilting voice that wobbled with excitement. "It's an honor! To finally meet you!"

"Yes, er, thank you..." Faba pulled his hand away, like he had just touched something distasteful. "But… I'm not sure I follow, Madame."

"Why, it's so simple! He's going to be running the labs with you from now on."

" _Really_." By now, Faba's voice had fallen even further, into the depths of harsh grievance. With the reality of what she said now dawning on him, he seethed silently a moment, though trying not to make a show of it in front of a stranger. He gave Lusamine a disgruntled look. "And where did you―" Faba gave the man a critical look-over, and rudely finished, "scrape this one up?"

She didn't admonish him for his insensitivity, but she patted Aster on the shoulder, as if to hearten him. "Of course there were a number of candidates, found through regular channels. But I found Professor Aster through Colress. He gave quite a glowing recommendation."

That name did not give Faba any confidence. He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I wasn't aware we were taking references from him." He sneered suddenly. "How _is_ your dear brother doing? Joined any good religious cults lately? Or hasn't he, since the last one?"

"Excuse the Branch Chief," Lusamine said aside to Aster, smiling cheekily. "He suffers from the notion that he holds a professional rivalry with the man―despite only ever meeting him once." After such blatant mockery, she put a hand to her face and told Faba matter-of-factly, "You might as well get it all out now, dear. Colress will be here next week for a visit. I'm letting him have free reign of the labs for two days as a favor."

"Since when―!" Faba, by now completely ignoring the presence of the fresh new recruit, lost his temper. "What nonsense! To hand that crackpot―aren't you two supposed to be estranged? When did you start cozying up again?"

Lusamine sighed harshly. "It's true we don't get along, but we can still manage a little quid pro quo. You're an only child, Faba; I know it's hard for you to grasp."

Faba actually shouted. "I won't stand for it!"

...Professor Aster suddenly cleared his throat uncomfortably and spoke up. "Perhaps, I ought to―" He motioned at the door. "I'll step outside a moment."

Though Lusamine looked mildly irritated that the conversation had merited it, she obliged, "Yes―give us a moment, won't you?"

They waited, listened to his steps, and heard the door slide shut.

* * *

Faba spoke first, and coldly. "We don't _need_ another coordinator."

"Faba, it's time. It's _been_ time."

He scowled. "I've done perfectly well―"

"I've put it off to spare your feelings, Faba, but I've noticed. Your work has gotten sloppier."

As she expected him to, he exploded with indignation. "Well, of _course_ it's gotten―! What did you expect would happen, heaping all these new responsibilities on me at once, two new projects on top of it all―for the resources and time you've given me, I daresay I have been a miracle worker!"

She magnanimously reached out and touched his forearm to calm him. "I'm not questioning your abilities. Certainly not your work ethic―you've been filling two roles for six years now, and you've done remarkably well, considering. But you've been alone too long."

"I have my team. I'm hardly alone."

"Your assistants are all qualified, yes, but they are nowhere near your caliber. You need someone closer to your level. Someone who can catch your mistakes. Someone who can challenge you." She pondered whether to state the obvious out loud, and took the risk. "You need a _Mohn_."

"That― That is outrageous, and isn't― That _man_ out there isn't―!" Faba, before he could say something ridiculous and emotional, caught his own petulance and swallowed it down. He pulled off his glasses and began to clean them huffily.

"Of course, dear. I understand. But Professor Aster will be a wonderful addition; you will find he is exceptionally qualified for the work we do here. _And_ ―I've thoroughly looked into his personal background. I think you'll be very happy with him."

The way she said this with a drip of meaning, with oversaturated sweetness, made him want to ask, _what are you getting at?_ , but he was no fool. For her to throw this at him―he tensed, rife with indignation, and replaced his glasses. "...Your motives... Crudely transparent as usual..." He crawled his eyes at her, a scowl on his face. "Madame, you might have saved yourself some money and hired a secretary, if all you really want is―"

"Oh, you aren't the type to chase secretaries around. I know you better than that."

He laughed through his scowl. "Don't think I'm unaware of what you're doing. I see how it all fits together―you've called Judge Evrard in. Don't think I―"

"Faba, you're a brilliant man, and I expect you understand everything perfectly well. He'll be here by this evening; we'll be meeting in my office. Will you be there? I think it's important for you to be present."

"It's macabre. It's―repugnant, I can't endorse it, I'd rather― " He cut himself off to say, "I work with evidence, Madame. Not assumptions. Not legal mumbo-jumbo."

"And I have always appreciated that about you. But there comes a time― _Il coule, et nous passons_."

"Quote poetry all you like! It won't change my mind!"

Her patience had worn thin, and her voice tightened, turning unexpectedly stern. "Faba. It's happening. With or without you. Whether you choose to be there is immaterial to that fact."

With her final verdict, she folded her hands before herself and watched his reluctance melt into bitter acquiescence.

"Now. Play nicely, won't you? I want you to show the new coordinator around the facilities so that he can get settled as soon as possible."

* * *

After Lusamine retrieved Aster from the hallway, planting him in the lab and leaving them alone, the two scientists stood awkwardly for a time, facing one another. It was the new coordinator who finally broke the silence.

"Here―!" The man yanked a folder from his hands and thrust it in Faba's direction. His face had knotted up with strain. "These are all of my qualifications and references. I hope―! I hope they suit you!"

"Um." Faba thought to reject the gesture, as it didn't matter much now, and Lusamine had done that investigating already, but the zeal of the man persuaded him. He sighed and took it. And while being carefully watched―the man must have held his breath the entire time―Faba flipped through the inserts, glancing through his history. Yes, yes. All very high-tier, advanced, top-of-all-his-classes, the best schools and programs, the most prestigious research labs―all very milquetoast and _boring_. Faba couldn't criticize it, except to say that in his circles, he saw the resumes for prodigies and geniuses every day, and this looked much the same as all the others. "Hmm."

The unimpressed sound seemed to aggravate the young professor, so Faba made a verbal comment instead, pulling on a particular sheet of paper.

"So, Colress…"

"To be honest," Aster stammered, obviously remembering Faba's earlier comments, "I was shocked. We haven't spoken in years. We attended university together―ages ago―in Black City, where he was studying abroad." He shrugged. "I guess we _were_ partners..."

"...I see. Hmm. I hadn't…" Faba mumbled a little under his breath. "Caught onto that."

"He was a very solitary fellow, though―when we were assigned together, he did everything on his own. He hardly let me touch any of our assignments. But I must have made some sort of impression, since here I am, all the same."

"Ah, because―" Faba amended, "You were _lab_ partners. Right… Now see here, young man, I think we ought to―"

"I'm here to relieve you," Aster interrupted.

"...I'm sorry?"

"Anything I can do! I'm not above tedious work―if you have paperwork, or need a model compiled, or need someone to run data sheets, you can count on me! My purpose is to make your life easier―so please, I am at your disposal! Anything at all! Use me as you will!"

"Your eagerness is, erm―" Faba grimaced and groused. "― _Noted_. But you're a bit overqualified to be wasted on secretarial work."

"It's no trouble at all! You must understand―my Master's thesis was an expansion on Mohn's work―what a tremendous mind he was!―but for my dissertation, I must have read every scrap of your research―the way you tied together his theories on energy transfer and your study on gravitational compression!―It was like poetry, if you don't mind me saying."

Faba frowned and pulled on his beard.

"That I have a chance to work with you―in any capacity! You must see that I'm shaking with excitement."

He _could_ see―the man was practically vibrating. Faba scratched his forehead, his face now dim with irritation. "Hmm. And your name again?"

"Aster. And please―just Aster."

"Very well. Aster. Come with me; I'll show you around. And a word of advice?"

"Yes?"

" _Watch the drool_."

* * *

Guzma didn't spend a lot of time in or around Lusamine's Aether office. She spent many of her after-dinner evenings there, writing letters, making phone calls, meeting behind locked doors with employees or guests, and making a variety of executive decisions. It wasn't particularly private, but it was a long space, with an enormous desk placed ahead of a glass panel looking out over the green of the conservatory. This office had a sterner feel than the personal office she had in her home, which he had seen only once. The home office, he came to realize, had been more-or-less abandoned, along with all its personal touches: the family pictures that she hadn't put away, Mohn's doctorate, all the paraphernalia of the past that she now kept behind that locked door.

That evening, the Aether Office hosted only a few people. Guzma entered directly behind Lusamine, and spotted a few nameless employees flanking the walls, as well as Faba, who stood towards the back corner, arms folded and an expression like he was about to be taken out and shot. The floors, slick and white, led them to the broad work desk, its surface devoid of decoration, aside from the standard name-plaque - "Madame President Lusamine" - and a neat stack of papers aside a flat business case. And behind the desk, the stewards of these papers, stood two individuals: one, in a neatly-cut suit, Guzma recognized as one of Lusamine's lawyers; the other was a tall, unfamiliar man in flowing black and red robes, and sporting a long, white cravat at his throat.

All Lusamine had told Guzma of the meeting was that it was a "legal matter" and that it wouldn't take very long, so seeing a lawyer and what appeared to be a stuffy judge didn't surprise him.

The judge glanced at Guzma, but didn't otherwise acknowledge him; he instead settled his gaze on Lusamine as she approached. Two chairs had been brought before the desk, and so she directed Guzma to sit while she shook the judge's hand and exchanged a warm greeting. Guzma noted that the greeting was in French―and pretty soon after Lusamine sat and the judge started proceedings, he found that _everything_ was in French, and he had no recourse to ask for a translation.

Guzma tried to catch onto words, watch their body language―the judge began leafing through his papers, droning on; the lawyer looked unaffected; and Lusamine listened intently but stared straight ahead, her face firm and emotionless.

After a minute or two, the judge looked up at her and asked a direct question.

" _Comprenez-vous les conséquences de la déclaration de décès_?"

She answered, " _Oui._ "

They all heard the door to the office open and slam. Guzma, startled, turned his head, and found that Faba had stormed out.

"What…?"

But Lusamine shook her head and waved for him to not worry about it.

The conversation continued.

" _Et vous comprenez que cela annulera votre mariage_?"

In that moment, without warning, Lusamine reached over and grabbed Guzma's hand. She squeezed almost too hard, and he gawked at her hand and then her. He tried to whisper at her, but her eyes remained cold and forward, her face stone-like.

She said quietly, painfully, " _Oui_ ― _je comprends._ "

There was a pregnant pause; the first sign of emotion came from the judge, who pulled a melancholy expression as he reached the last page, drew out a pen, and produced his signature.

" _Mohn est décédé légalement."_

And Guzma understood perfectly that it―whatever it was―was now done.

* * *

Lusamine bid adieu to the judge, to her lawyer, to the employees, and after escorting them out of the office, she finally had time to address Guzma, who had pent up his frustration for the last half hour.

"I didn't catch _any_ of that," he complained.

She didn't appear to have the emotional energy to scold him for his tone, and so instead drifted tiredly toward her desk. "No, I imagine you didn't."

"So? Uh, what happened? Was it important?"

"It was a long time coming," she sighed. She reached one of the two chairs and leaned into it, as if to hold her in the midst of retreating strength. "Mohn has been missing for six years. Of course we have no body… No proof of death… But the circumstances of his disappearance… You see, it is time for us to move on." When she looked at him and still saw signs of confusion in his face, she spelled it out. "He's been declared legally deceased."

"Oh." He thought on this, and struggled a bit with it. He walked up to her, almost ready to console her, but didn't know how to even begin, so he stood awkwardly in her space. "...You gonna have a funeral?"

She shook her head. "No―I shouldn't think so. It might be legal now, but we went through that grief years ago. To drag it out again..."

"...Mr. Faba," he said, as he meant to say something about him, but lost courage. He craned his head for the door, through which Faba had abruptly left.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, well… It's still rather raw for him. You know, don't you? He and Mohn worked together―it was their project, after all―he was in the lab when it happened, all very traumatic―"

To her surprise, Guzma stiffened and actually processed her words with all their emotional impact. He turned in the opposite direction, fidgeting with his fingers inside his coat pockets. "Shouldn't―" He frowned hesitantly. "Shouldn't somebody talk to him?"

This explosive show of sympathy baffled Lusamine at first. She hadn't really thought Guzma was intellectually or emotionally capable of such an extension of compassion; he was always so in his own head, so wrapped up in his own desires. She reached out and touched his forearm. "Oh, no, _mon minou_ ― Faba doesn't talk about things― He and I are alike in that way; we bury our sorrows in our work."

Guzma, who himself only ever experienced drowning sorrows in liquor and violence, couldn't entirely relate. But he took her at her word.

"In all―" She breathed some relief. "It's a bittersweet thing."

She waited for him to catch her use of the word "bittersweet" and interrogate her for it, but he dimly agreed, "Uh-huh."

She tried again: "Legally, my marriage is now annulled."

Guzma nodded automatically. "...Yeah."

...The poor dear. Lusamine stepped up close to him. "Don't you understand what this means for us?" She lifted her hand, cradling his cheek in her palm. "It means we can move forward."

"Move―" He echoed her words stupidly. "Forward―"

"Darling, we're not lovesick teenagers. We're adults with careers to consider, and so naturally, we should take the next step."

Suddenly, Guzma thought, the 'next step' sounded unlike what he first thought it would be. He felt his lungs flap and seize in his chest. "W-wait, so you wanna―"

"Get married, of course. We couldn't do it with my old marriage still on paper…"

* * *

Guzma heard a loud buzzing noise go off on his head, that seemed to punctuate each time she said the word, obscuring it in a painful, distorted sound.

"But we―" He felt dizzy and had to steady himself. "We, we barely―! I mean, shouldn't we slow down a second and―"

"There's no time to lose. Especially if we intend to start a family."

When the buzzing hit that time, he found the strength to strangle some louder words out. "Wait―wait, what? Are you― Are you serious?"

"Don't be silly. Of course I'm serious. Modern medical science has been a blessing to women my age, Guzma. Why, I know of women older than myself who've successfully had children."

"But―" He tried in vain to think of a response, of some way to express his deep and suffocating sense of doubt. All at once, every emotion that he had impacted downward swirled up inside, all his reservations about fathers, and mothers, and children―how they seemed, to him, doomed to forever crash into one another. But he lacked the vocabulary to say this eloquently, so he resorted to a boyish plea. "Miss L, I don't think―I'm ready."

Rather than sympathize, she played his comment off like a joke, and patted his shoulder. "Oh, Guzma. No one's ever ready for marriage or children. I certainly wasn't. But you'll grow into it."

 _Grow into it_. The idiomatic phrase felt strange to him, as he stood towering over her. He sank into silent, knotted trepidation.

"What an expression you have on your face!" She laughed at his unease and began to press downward on his shoulders, eventually getting him seated in a chair. She cupped his face, pressing her mouth to his forehead and purring. "Guzma, dear, darling, my sweet, beautiful boy. Listen to me." He squirmed a second, then cast his eyes into hers in an attempt to find strength. "I understand that you may feel overwhelmed. So many good things are happening all at once. But I have learned that life does not wait. We must be greedy with it―grab as much of it as we can, as soon as we can."

He realized then that she was waiting for him to say something. He obliged weakly, "Okay."

As reward for his compliance, she smoothed her hands about the slope of his throat and pressed her lips to his. For a moment, it engulfed him in promise and he forgot his fear. But the salve proved temporary; in their separation, as he sat and she stood over him, he found himself under her shadow.

"Now. I don't want you to worry," she told him. She slid her arms about his neck, pressing his face into a maddeningly intimate embrace at her chest. He could hear the drumming of her heart. "I'll arrange everything. We'll keep this to ourselves for the time-being, but in a week or two, we'll break our wonderful news to everyone."

In his queasiness, in his inability to form words, his arms reached around her, until his fingers pressed and clung to the soft fabric at her back.

* * *

Guzma went out into the garden by himself this time. In the late evening, the place looked remarkably different. The very mood of the trees and landscaping took on a harsher, sharper shape: the shadows under the lamp-posts positioned along the paths were complete in their obscurity, and the leaves of the garden's trees blurred into black, mossy forms, like clouds against the night sky. Birds that normally visited the garden had fled on or nestled away. Resident crickets replaced their music with their rattling chirps, and an occasional breeze moved through to clap leaves together or tickle the surface of the reflecting pool.

He found the bench where they had sat earlier that day. His memory of their conversation there felt so distant, he could have sworn it happened weeks ago. He pondered it a second, but did not sit, instead turning for the pool outstretched before it. Childishly, he trotted toward it, bent down, and dipped his hand into the water, watching the slick ripples move outward in steady fashion. The water was cold, black, and captured the gentlest starlight from above.

His head buzzed. Alone, and with no one around to scold him, he took off his shoes and socks, and stood for a moment barefoot on the velvet grass. He dipped his toes in the water―shivered―then pulled up the legs of his trousers, rolling them into tight folds at his knees. He collapsed, sitting himself on the grass and plunging his calves into the chilly pool. He sat like that for quite a while―his legs bobbing in the water, weightless, churning, shadowed under the murkiness. He could feel stones down at the bottom of the pool; they were smooth, flat, oblong. In his brain, these facts accumulated and translated into his next impulsive act: he stood up, wading through the pool―the water reached up to about his knees, and still wetted his trousers a little―and began to pluck the stones from the bottom. He gathered them in his hands one-by-one at first, tossing them casually back into the water for a satisfying _splunk_.

Bored, and suddenly feeling alone, he dug around his belt and released Pheromosa. Moments after doing it, he couldn't say why he had done it, but there his Lady remained, standing at the edge of the pool, pale and ghostly under the lamplight.

"Hey," he called out to her.

She blinked slowly at him.

"I'm gonna get married," he told her, because he wanted to know what the words felt like in his mouth.

Either not understanding, or not caring, she blinked again, then peered down into the water.

To pass the time, Guzma took to positioning himself at one end of the rectangular pool and chucking stones as far as he could. They made surprisingly little noise as they hit the water, and he managed to strike close to the far end, if he put his full strength into it.

Lady's legs were so thin and light, that they made no sound when she stepped down into the pool and walked over to him. She studied his stance at close range, and he continued to pull out rocks and throw them. Her curiosity eventually drove her to bend and draw out her own stone. To complete her imitation, she threw it, and the stone flew far, far beyond the pool, out into the distant side of the garden.

"Guess you win," he said.

Having won, or perhaps having found no enjoyment in the activity after all, she quietly waded back to the edge of the pool and exited the water.

* * *

Lusamine suffered for being tangible, he decided―for coming out of his abstract brain. A part of him thrilled at the flesh and bone of her, that he could touch her, and do more, too―but another part, the child in him that he never successfully suppressed, began to loathe it: its heat, its sweat, its corruption, its biology. Bodies are for breaking, for being broken; for hurting, and being hurt. And nowhere in his life, outside of restless dreams or passing fantasies, has that ever been different for him.

He knows marriage is, in its ultimate way, a carnal and corporeal thing, but it had religion to it, too. Talk of spirit and sacrament. Promises. Promises, which he knows from experience always come with secrets, and secrets―

And he wonders―does it make you happy? Does it transcend you, make you something more than blood and guts? He remembers the sound and lull of poetry, how it sang, as if the soul could be wrung out of you. Is that what it's like? To really love somebody?

"I'll be a husband―then a father―then I guess―" He looked up. "I guess I'll be done. Like, I'll be…" He wrestled with his words, trying to untangle their meaning. "It's what you're s'pposed to do."

His words ran out, and so he occupied himself by picking up more stones and balancing them in his arms. As he did this, Lady began to walk the perimeter of the pool, until she reached the furthest point at its end.

Where Lady stood, her outer glow softened her, making her dreamlike in the dark. Her luminescence carved a beam of pure light over the black surface of the water, cutting across his feet, which had since gone numb from cold. He felt the stickiness of pond muck gathering at his ankles, but he didn't care. He looked out over the reflecting pool, down the shining glaze, and the many numbers of stones that he piled in his arms began to slip from his hold, splashing and striking the light at his feet. Lady's reflection stirred, distorting momentarily into broken, white ribbons, crackling about like fireworks, like a flock of birds taking flight.

Lady looked back at him for a moment, large, bulbous, purple eyes penetrating him. He thought he pitied her―

She turned back to the sky. The stars blackened. The fresh wind died. All went quiet―and he watched the dance of broken light.


	14. The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

**Chapter 14: The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea**

* * *

Wedding planning, Guzma decided, was yet another form of solitude. He had held out hope, but not really expected, that the idea of marriage on the horizon would inspire some kind of emotional or physical intimacy in Lusamine. He thought it would make more opportunities for being with one another, engaged in conjunctive activities or conversation. Maybe they would confide at last. Maybe they would spend time in some sacred, silent place to really discover what they meant together.

But to Lusamine, it proved to be just another affair to arrange with impassive distance. She made calls. She talked to designers and bakers and planners. She signed lots of papers, and looked over lots of pictures with a critical eye. All-in-all, it seemed to Guzma that he saw even less of her now, and when he did see her, she mentally wasn't there with him. Guzma, as she had promised him, had very little to do with all this, to the point where he had to actually beg, _beg,_ to know the basics of what she intended for them to do.

It hadn't helped his feeling of isolation that Guzma had, in recent days, started to avoid the labs. He used to take frequent trips there to pester Faba about whatever was on his mind―he sensed in the scientist such depth of field, such a reach, like he held secrets to things that Guzma could find, if only he knew how to ask for them right. He also liked the soft layer of contempt that Faba kept between them; it made him feel safe, free from ulterior motives.

So it wasn't Faba's fault.

But the lab had changed in dynamic with the addition of new staff. Faba was less busy, but more flustered―every time Guzma ended up wandering in, there was lots of shouting going on, mostly by Faba and directed at Professor Aster.

The strangest part was Lusamine would say things like, "Oh, it's so nice to see them getting along."

To which Guzma glanced up from his phone, frowning. "What are you talking about? They're always yelling."

(She wouldn't answer his contradiction, instead smiling and patting his hand.)

...Anyway.

Guzma didn't like Aster.

It wasn't that he was… A bad person, or anything. No, Aster was nice, kind, and patient with everyone, including him. He took Faba's verbal abuse with a whimsical smile, and he always wanted to know if there was anything, anything at all, that he could do to help. That alone set Guzma on edge. Aster was _too_ nice, and spoke too sweetly. Whenever they interacted, Aster would hum with interest and affection, asking him questions, saying things that Guzma didn't understand until the man laughed and teased him. (Aster called him a "bumpkin" once, and though Guzma didn't know what it meant at the time, his face burned at the humiliation of it). Plus, he was a lot more touchy; he would grab Guzma by the shoulder or arm, and be quick to take his hands to guide him on something, or clap him on the back. It was all very… Disconcerting.

He had asked Faba about it―or rather, tried to ask, and couldn't come up with the words.

"Is Mr. Aster―"

There was a silence, into which Faba irritably prodded, "Is he what?"

And with a huff, a flush, and a mumble, he retreated. "...Never mind."

* * *

Tonight, though, Guzma could take it no more.

Guzma hadn't initially meant to go to the lab this late at night. He tried Faba's suite first, but no one answered; he eventually found himself wandering the science wing and stopping by Faba's office, but he wasn't in there, either.

Just as the buzzing in his head started again, urging him to go press onward and quiet his mental noise, he passed one of the labs and noticed a dim, but clearly visible light through the glass. He squinted. It looked like the lab itself was dark, but the storage room at the back remained lit. That wasn't totally unusual; the storage area was immense, lined with shelves of expensive equipment, and filled with prep space, meaning lab workers could end up in there for hours, if they lost track of time.

Guzma slunk his way in. The motion sensor lights clicked on as entered. There was a shuffling noise.

"Uh, hello?"

As he thought, the panels of glass near the ceiling that looked into the equipment room glowed with fluorescent lighting. He heard two urgent voices erupt into hushed bickering.

"...Mr. Faba?"

He heard an aggrieved sigh, proving his guess correct. A button was pressed, opening the sliding door to the storage room, and Faba emerged.

He didn't look like himself: his normally prim demeanor was replaced with something more frantic and dishevelled; he looked, to Guzma, like he had been pushing boxes around, maybe reorganizing. He did that on occasion, when he felt especially distraught at the condition of the supply room. His green glasses were up on his forehead, and his coat was unbuttoned, hanging loosely, revealing the bright lime color of his turtleneck.

The Branch Chief took one look at him and growled. "What?! What is it? Has someone died?" Faba twisted his glasses back onto his face, looking mightily flustered. He added bitterly, under his breath, " _Please_ tell me someone's dead."

"Uh, nah. I was just thinking, and…"

"Oh, you're _thinking_?" Faba's voice raced and became more irritated as he went on. "I can see why you've run down here in the middle of the night to tell me this!"

"Geez! You don't gotta yell at me! I just wanna talk!" Guzma craned his neck to look behind him and towards the equipment room. "Who's back there?"

"No one."

"...But I thought… Weren't you talking to somebody?"

"Oh, I was just―" Faba started to gesture at the storage door, then caught himself in the midst of his mistake. He snorted and touched his forehead. "Where's my head? It's only Aster―he's looking for some equipment for me―"

"I guess you're working late, huh."

"Yes! Work! Work never ends. Now―what is it you wanted?"

Guzma had never seen Faba this frazzled and eager to push him right back out the door. He frowned. "Well… I have something I wanna…"

To their mutual surprise, the door to the equipment room slid open again, and Aster walked out, looking comically nonchalant and unoccupied, hands deep in his lab coat pockets. The professor turned, saw them there, and pretended to be surprised. His eyes brightened at seeing Guzma. "Ah! Mr. Guzma! How good to see you this evening!"

Faba rolled his eyes. "Aster―"

"Is everything well with you? It seems you've been so busy we hardly see you anymore!"

"Aster―! For God's sake, the centrifuge!"

For a second, Professor Aster stared at him, completely uncomprehending. Then, like a lightbulb went off, he jumped. "Ah, of course, the _centrifuge,_ give me a second―" He disappeared back into the equipment room and the door sealed shut.

Faba pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a breath between his teeth. "... _Idiot_."

Guzma, alone with him now, blurted out his news. "We're gonna get married."

Faba dropped his hand from his face. "I beg your pardon?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Initially thinking his statement was going to be self-explanatory, Guzma huffed and fumbled over his explanation. "We're― Miss L and me, we decided― We're gonna get married. We're gonna announce it in a few days, so..."

"Oh! Oh, I see, that's―" Faba lifted his hands, waving at the air limply. "Oh, that's―yes, wonderful news, congratulations and all that―" Faba was so distracted that his face remained contorted with pain as he said it. "Now why are you telling me this?"

Guzma had expected more of a reaction than that. He expected some shock, or indignation, or even some push-back. That Faba uncharacteristically rolled over into a bland 'congratulations' made him worry that he'd said something the wrong way. "Well―I dunno, I don't really have anybody else to tell."

"That's―" Faba paused, struck by his reasoning. "I see, yes, that's probably true. Look―perhaps _tomorrow_ ―"

"Yeah, got it, you're busy―or whatever."

By then, Aster had returned, carrying a fairly hefty machine and searching for a good place to set it down.

"Put it down anywhere―" Faba turned quickly back to Guzma. "Then I'll see you later."

The centrifuge thumped onto the counter, and Guzma shrugged in defeat. "Okay. See ya."

The door shut… And Aster snorted, snickered, and bubbled up into hysterical laughter.

Faba snapped. "Oh, shut up, will you! I don't see what's so funny."

Between cackles, Aster gasped ' _centrifuge'_ and slapped the counter. "I'm sorry. You're right." He sucked in a few breaths to collect himself. "Ah-h. What did he want, anyway?"

"He―" Faba remembered who he was talking to and shut him down. "None of _your_ business." In his frustration, he plucked at the hairs of his beard and stared at the exit door where Guzma had left. "That boy desperately needs friends. I can't get anything done around here with him toddling in here every time he has a personal crisis."

"I think it's sweet," Aster ridiculously sighed, traipsing up to him. He leaned his head to the side, eventually resting it on Faba's shoulder.

Faba let out what could possibly be the most overwrought, sputtering heave of disgust ever uttered by a human being; he scowled, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, crossed his arms, and blustered, "Oh, for―what are you standing around for! Would you put that thing away!" He waved first at Aster's head to knock it off and then pointed at the centrifuge. "I'm about to have a conniption, and you're not helping!"

Aster just chuckled, lifting his head and heading back over to the equipment. "I think we're a little past 'about to'―but whatever you say."

Faba sneered, eyes narrowing after him. "I'm still not convinced," he hissed vilely, "that she didn't put you up to all of this."

"You keep saying that, and I don't know what you're talking about." Aster hoisted up the machine again. "Has working here really made you so paranoid? Should I be worried?"

"That _woman_ is the devil," Faba answered curtly. "The sooner you accept that, the longer you'll survive here."

Aster seemed to think on this as he carried the centrifuge back to the shelves in the other room and trailed back to stand in the doorway. He looked to Faba carefully. "If you think I'm her toadie, you're wrong," he said. "All I know is she interviewed me. She did warn me about you, though."

"... _Warn_ you? Oh, heavens. What about?"

"Well… To be honest, I think I must have misunderstood her."

Faba crossed his arms at him, cocking an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You see, _she_ said that you're a terrible flirt." Aster scratched his head thoughtfully, ignoring Faba's sputtering. "I thought she meant 'incorrigible'? But I'm starting to think she really meant ' _unskilled_ '..."

"You―!"

Aster let out a ringing laugh, dodging back into the storage room while Faba screamed.

"You are the most hackneyed, infuriating, impossible man I've ever had the misfortune of working with! You hear me!"

* * *

Naturally, as the weeks waned on after the debut of the new kahuna and the stunning beasts, the flow of visitors had slowed. The intensity of the battles varied, as some trainers came more curious than ready, and other trainers arrived with advanced planning. It so happened, though, that the day before the marriage announcement, a particular trainer boarded one of Aether's shuttles at the docks of Ula'Ula Island, scuffing his sandals before ducking inside.

It was sunset―he was cutting his time close. But he had a feeling he wouldn't be turned away.

The boat attendant ended up waiting for a few minutes, to be certain that no one else was coming, but as he expected, he was alone tonight. He settled in, pushed himself back in his seat, and folded his legs, ignoring the attendant's expression as she began to realize who he was and no doubt intended to radio ahead.

Whatever. He wasn't trying to be a secret.

The boat finally tugged forward, and he watched the sun bathe the sea in lukewarm light as it sank, and the clouds pull apart in the late breeze like pink and purple candy floss. As the wind hissed past the shuttle, and the ocean bobbed its rhythm beneath the boat's sleek hull, the kahuna contemplated what he thought he would find in Aether Paradise. He had always thought the man-made island was an eyesore on their watery landscape, a hulking mass of metal and motors, groaning and feeding off the energy of the waves. Nowadays, from the shore of the natural islands, one could see, off in the distance, shuttles and private boats zipping about its base, like busy, hungry ants.

Time passed. The ride would be over soon. He unfolded his legs and watched as the last drop of sunlight slipped under the water like a golden fish, leaving shadow in its wake.

* * *

Lusamine, as he expected, stood at the dock in a finely-trimmed white dress, flanked by guards, ready to receive him.

"Kahuna Nanu!" she greeted, still managing to sound surprised, even after being given advance notice.

After he stepped out of the shuttle, he approached her without enthusiasm. She offered her hand, which triggered words out of him. "Madame President," he said politely in return, nodding his head. He took her hand for a delicate shake. "Lemme just say―TV screen don't do you justice."

She smiled guardedly at the compliment. "It is truly a pleasure to finally meet you. After all these years of inviting you over with no response, I had thought you were sworn against it."

"Me?" Nanu shrugged and picked at the inside of his ear. "Nah. I'm a bit of a homebody. Nothin' personal."

"You should have told me you were coming. I might have arranged a more appropriate reception. Would you like anything? Anything at all?"

"Oh, no. That'll be fine. I don't need nothin' fancy."

"No," she replied, eyeballing the rest of him. "I suppose not. May I ask what has brought you here this evening?"

"I'm here for the kid. To battle, and all."

"Oh!" Lusamine looked briefly lost, like she had missed something important. "I wouldn't have anticipated―well, certainly, he's still available, if you wish to challenge him. There isn't anything else you came for?"

"Well, o' course, to see you, too, Madame; after all, I'm a real fan of your work."

She sensed a caveat, but prodded anyway. "Really?"

"Yeah. Worked in the Kalos region back in the day―was there when you took off―you made quite the centerfold―with the feather boa―those hoop earrings―" He whistled. "Still remember it like it was yesterday. You shoulda seen the love letters I wrote and never sent―" He leered. "Criminal stuff."

She smiled and offered a gentle laugh, placing a hand at her chest. She knew better than to reward his cheekiness by being offended. "I'm glad to hear that my work inspired such zeal in your youth."

He matched her laugh with a smirk and looked her over again. "You haven't changed much. You oughtta sell whatever black magic you're into."

"I believe getting older is no excuse for not taking care of oneself," she explained, and through her smile and curtsey, it was clear she wasn't talking about herself.

Nanu stared at her for a moment and subtly tilted his head, like he had finished sizing her up and formed a definite opinion. His smirk hadn't left his face, and it tightened with his eyes and brow; the interaction seemed to have… pleased him, somehow.

This feeling was not reciprocated. Lusamine's smile vanished, and she turned, summoning him to follow her inside.

* * *

 _The strange visitor entered wearing a hefty-looking coat, which he was quick to discard in the even climate of the laboratory, revealing a much slimmer black uniform underneath. He looked like he meant, but couldn't quite bring himself, to remove the gloves on his hands, which sported obnoxiously large typing interfaces; in his excitement, brought on by the lab and the promise of testing new life forms, he scrambled to take notes and nearly forgot to greet anyone._

 _Over those two days, Guzma would see that Colress had certain qualities that echoed Lusamine: his piercing gaze, delicate facial features, and blonde hair; his uptight business manner, which cut to the point; his attention to detail; his urge to analyze all available information; his marriage of aesthetic and utility, an obsession with both appearance and function. However, there were differences, too: Colress didn't flatter or charm quite as well, even when he offered compliments, and his demeanor, while intense at times, was nowhere near as overpowering as hers._

 _Guzma never quite figured out the nature of the relationship Colress had with Lusamine or Faba. Lusamine greeted the man coldly, but politely; Faba tried and failed to start fights with him, launching petty snipes, to which Colress would respond plainly, or ignore completely. Something must have happened between the three of them, and the way they held grudges over it but were still able to work around it implied it must have happened a very long time ago._

 _When Colress finally greeted Guzma, though, it was free of any baggage― he grabbed the boy's hand, squeezed it, stared right into his eyes with a strength of will and mission._

 _"Mr. Guzma," he said, "My sister has told me all about your problem. I'm here to help."_

* * *

"You're here to what?"

Kahuna Nanu, resting his thumb behind his belt buckle, traced his eyes to the beaming woman beside him, then back to the kid, who wore an expression like he'd been slapped in the face. They had found Guzma exiting the arena and moving toward the elevator, likely thinking his roster had ended for the day, and when he saw Nanu approaching, he looked ready to faint. "Battle. _You_." When Nanu still saw the shock in Guzma's eyes, he drawled, raising an eyebrow, "Pretty sure I'm speakin' English."

"Isn't this exciting!" Lusamine interrupted, trying to lift Guzma's apparent misgivings. "Your first battle with another kahuna! Don't you think this sets a wonderful precedent?"

"Don't get your hopes up," Nanu told her glibly. "Not coming here with the others' blessing; this ain't official kahuna business."

Lusamine interpreted this comment and tilted her head at Guzma, who only just began to recover from his surprise. "Does that make this personal?" She clasped her hands. "Guzma, you never mentioned you were friends."

"He lives in Po Town," Guzma said, keeping his voice gruff and aloof to imply that 'friends' would be the incorrect way to put it. "'Course I know him."

"I see; you were neighbors."

Nanu snorted and smirked. "Kid took my money and stayed outta my business. Best landlord I ever had... occasional armed robbery aside. "

"Well." Lusamine sighed, clearly weary of Nanu's schtick, and floated past him until she reached Guzma. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm. "I'll let you two catch up before you start; I'm sure this will be a thrilling match." With that, she squeezed on his bicep, sending a rush through him. "Good luck, darling."

This moment of sensuality was not missed by the elder kahuna; Nanu kept his eyes on Lusamine until she disappeared around the corner. Then, with rash boldness, he chuckled. "...So. You're tappin' that, huh. Can't say you lack nerve."

All the poise Guzma had supposedly learned flew out the window; his eyelid twitched and he frothed, puffing his chest. "Tch! Shut up and let's fight already!"

"Well, aren't you eager." Amused, Nanu shrugged his bouncing shoulders and started to turn for the arena entrance. "Good to see some things haven't changed. You're right, though-let's cut the sweet-talk."

The two entered the arena in relative silence, Guzma crossing to the far side and retrieving his fighters from an attendant; Nanu peacefully settled on the near end, standing slumped over the chalky dirt. He read nerves on the kid, but couldn't decide if it was from the battle or from being visited by someone he knew.

Guzma, to throw off such readings, finally turned to him and blustered. "This won't be like last time, old man."

"Wouldn't have come here if I thought any different," Nanu assured him, surprised that Guzma would bring up a loss. He inspected Guzma's wrist, which was obscured by its placement in a jacket pocket. "Rumor is, you have somethin' up your sleeve."

The young kahuna blinked, hardened his face, reached and twisted his fingers over his Z-Ring… then let it go again. "Let's go," he barked, clasping his first beast ball.

* * *

 _Colress confessed that he had never used a Z-Ring before, but only ever saw it in action secondhand._

 _Which made it all the more humiliating when he took Guzma's Z-Ring, learned the appropriate movements, tested it in a battle simulation with his own pokemon, and successfully used it about two minutes._

 _He practically bounded back into the observation area, singing. "How exhilarating! Phenomenal! What an incomparable experience!"_

* * *

Nanu had gone easy on him before.

Their first fight had been fast, brutal, and humiliating. Guzma could still remember the over-the-top confidence he had dragged into the ring, as he sensed Nanu's laid-back nature and wrongly attributed it to weakness. He figured the crusty geezer didn't have the energy to put up a real fight, and the kahuna let him believe it, just before demolishing his team in a few turns.

Now, Guzma had several years more of experience, and a team roster that included savage beasts from another dimension.

But within a minute or two, he found himself scrambling; what should have been a more even match, maybe an easy one, sputtered into an immediate disaster. He opened with Pheromosa, her stealth and responsiveness normally lending an advantage for the first few rounds. Nanu, though, sent out his Absol-and before Guzma had a chance to signal for her, the smaller creature darted outward, slicing into her with a current of silvery wind, nearly knocking her out in one hit.

Guzma flailed and shouted; Nanu stood cold, his expression unchanging.

* * *

 _"Let us discuss. What could possibly be different between my attempt and yours?"_

 _Guzma, who had thought Colress intended to explain the answer, frowned. After a second, he volunteered uneasily, "Maybe… Maybe you're just better."_

* * *

The next few rounds were no better. It was like Nanu's pokemon acted out of instinct, free of command, but still managed to anticipate Guzma's strategies. Several of his team had gone down in a flurry of dust, and still, Nanu hadn't said a peep-aside from a sudden smirk and taunt.

"Need a moment to catch up?"

Guzma had to chomp down on his tongue to keep down the scream, and yanked another ball from his belt. "Shut up! Ariados―!"

* * *

 _"'Better'? That's much too vague to be useful in our analysis," Colress chided him. "Better in what way?"_

 _"I dunno, maybe― maybe you're a stronger trainer, or somethin'."_

 _"That's entirely possible," Colress agreed. "But at this point we have no data to confirm that. Let's place that theory aside for now. What other ideas do you have?"_

 _"Hey, I thought you were s'pposed to―"_

 _"Come now! What elements could we be missing?"_

 _Guzma snorted impatiently. "Nothin'! I― musta done it wrong, that's all."_

 _"By which you must mean the stimulation gestures. Again, this is possible, but I would say statistically unlikely. You taught me the gestures yourself; whatever errors you made, I should have mirrored them."_

 _Guzma felt, in that moment, toyed with and mocked; he felt like the man was doing this on purpose: goading theories out of him just to knock them down and make him look like an idiot. He lost his patience. "Why don't you just tell me the right answer?"_

 _Colress looked shocked, so much so that he stopped typing. He spoke emphatically. "'The right answer'? We are not in a schoolhouse, Mr. Guzma. This is not the time for rote memorization or multiple choice; this is life! Life is inquiry! Develop a theory, weigh its probability, test it, analyze the result, and if necessary, repeat! These are the essentials of what it means to be a scientist."_

 _"Yeah, but I'm not, okay! I'm not―" Guzma hopped up onto the counter, seating himself. He grumbled. "Look, you got this figured out already, so just spill it, huh?"_

 _"You may think I'm holding out on you, but I believe you are doing the same to me." He turned toward the screen, but looked at Guzma out the corner of his eye. He said, with a shrewd and confident smirk, "I can see it in your eyes. There's an idea itching at you-one you are not willing to volunteer."_

 _Guzma blinked. Being able to see right through you―was it a family trait, or something? Still, he hesitated, tapping the heel of his shoe against the counter. "It's… It's stupid."_

 _Colress waved a dismissive hand. "An idea cannot bite. So please, do your worst."_

* * *

Ariados got a few licks in against Nanu's Sableye, but the glinting, giggling goblin scurried about it, eventually striking it down with a decisive blow.

Nanu had the guts to pull a yawn as Guzma contemplated his next selection.

* * *

 _"I… had a teacher. Master Hala."_

 _"Ah, yes. The kahuna. I'm aware of him."_

 _"Well,_ ** _he_** _said that the ring―" Guzma looked embarrassed at having to explain it. "It's like, it needs a balance in your spiritual energy… or something like that."_

 _"What precisely did he say about this energy? How did he describe this 'balance'?"_

 _Guzma, shocked that he wasn't being shot down, flailed a little. "I dunno. I don't― I don't believe that stuff, anyway."_

 _Colress considered his comment, and must have sensed Guzma's previous attempt to explain the idea. He shook his head. "As a scientist, I cannot comment on the reality of 'spiritual energy.' But I do deal in intangibles at times, Mr. Guzma. Your friend, Dr. Faba, will suggest to you that I am debasing my profession for speaking about such things―but do we not all know what is true?"_

 _When Colress saw that Guzma wasn't following him at all, he continued:_

 _"Take, for example, the love between a mother and child. Such a thing cannot be measured, yet I have never met a scientist who would deny it exists." He grinned warmly and adjusted his glasses. "What hypocrites we men of science are!"_

* * *

Finally, Guzma felt he had brought the battle to an equilibrium of sorts; he had scraped and scrabbled, but managed to find an upper hand with his Kartana, knocking out the Persian, driving Nanu to release the last member of his party: the flapping, cawing Honchkrow, which brazenly splayed out its wings, putting its ample plumage on display.

The Honchkrow made quick work of his Kartana, plowing into it with its razored talons and beak.

* * *

 _"This all brings to my point: the immeasurable variable at play. I'm certain my dear sister has her own theory about what brings out the greatest potential of a life-form, but I didn't come here to feed you her perspective." (This was the first and last hint of sibling rivalry that Colress gave). "My research has led me to one, resounding conclusion. And so: Mr. Guzma. Do you trust these beasts?"_

 _"Um." Guzma shifted his eyes, like expecting this to be a trick question. "'Trust'…"_

 _"How would you describe your relationship with them? Would you characterize it as close?"_

 _"...I mean, it ain't bad, I guess."_

 _Colress, latching onto his uncertainty, spoke vehemently. "If you hope to harness their potential, you must focus on the bond you share with your pokemon-and indeed, your beasts. You must trust their loyalty to you; and they, in turn, must trust in yours."_

* * *

Had Guzma missed it before?

In their previous battle, the fight had been so short, maybe he didn't have time to notice: the synchronicity, the total match of will between Nanu and his fighters. It had been so easy to note Nanu's outward apathy and taken it as proof of disconnection. But the effortlessness in Nanu's fighting style was not due to unconcern, but to ease; a flow of, for lack of another word, _spirit_.

In the back of his head, he remembered Hala―

Guzma, for a spinning moment, watched the Honchkrow clap its wings together in eagerness for the next round, and wondered: were all the kahunas like this?

* * *

 _"That don't make sense!" Guzma retorted. "You think I don't got loyalty? I got tons of it! We fight and win together! When Goli's with me, we can crush anybody! He knows it, and I know it! So I ain't missing loyalty!"_

 _"Confidence is a superb quality to have, but loyalty-and trust-is more than brute strength, isn't it? Trust is a form of weakness― an opening of oneself to vulnerability, to the possibility of failure. I don't know you well enough to say for certain, but I have met and battled many strong trainers who have hit similar― 'ruts,' shall we say? And the problem is always the same: fear of defeat. Fear, leading to discordance, which leads to distrust."_

 _Of all the words spoken, Guzma lashed against one. "I ain't afraid."_

* * *

"Then make your choice, already, kid."

Guzma twisted his brow and frowned.

Victory was close. He knew what selection he could make to seal the battle's fate and guarantee his win. He knew. He had the beast ball in his hand… The Xurkitree, ready to fly out and wipe away the opposing Honchkrow like it was nothing. It would probably be an easy one-hit K.O.

(And yet, his thoughts invaded again, mucking up his strategy. The Z-Ring itched).

He squeezed his fingers on the ball and found himself unable to throw it.

Nanu loudly sighed, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. "Didn't know this all came with an intermission. Should I go grab a bite to eat an' come back?"

"Tch!" Guzma's trademark sound of annoyance, however, came with a sudden grin. He pressed his beast ball back into his belt and drew out a different ball. A surge of crazed confidence came through him. "All right! Ready, old man?" He slowly passed his tongue over his teeth, so cover for his inward trembling. "If you want a show―I'll give you a show!"

When Golisopod emerged and landed on the battlefield, it roared its eagerness and thudded the ground with its feet. In a quick movement, Guzma released his left hand from the jacket pocket, twisted his fingers back onto the crystal on its Z-Ring, and screamed.

"Goli! We're doin' this now!"

He didn't look at Nanu, but the kahuna wore a nonchalant look over his wave of wonder and anticipation. Nanu took a single step back and allowed, at the last second, a small, satisfied smirk. _Finally._

Guzma gripped his ring―huffed with determination―watched as Golisopod steadied itself and awaited his orders.

Just like he practiced. _Focus_.

The pathways in his brain swelled, crackling out in a snarled spiderweb of energy.

 _Wimpod squealed in pain._

 _The Skull's Sneasel had landed another slashing attack against its back, and the strike had at last triggered his Wimpod's intrinsic cowardice, causing it to dash from the battlefield, duck under Guzma's legs, and hide behind his ankles._

 _Guzma's first battle at Ula'Ula's docks had gone evenly so far, but the Skull teen he picked his fight with clearly thought he was off his rocker. (Throwing out a Wimpod? Was this kid for real?) The small crowd of observers, an audience of Skulls that included, somewhere, the young Plumeria, babbled as they watched and seemed to agree that the choice had been a serious miscalculation._

 _When the Wimpod did as it usually did, giving up in its moment of distress, it expected to be promptly returned to its ball, and nudged his feet with its head to impress this notion on him. But suddenly, in his mad, crushed weariness, Guzma clenched his fists and smiled. "You got 'em on the run, now," he growled._

 _Though he didn't look at his Wimpod, he could sense that its trembling had quelled, and it nibbled at his shoe to express its confusion and worry._

 _"Look at 'em. They're shakin'." (He said this, even though he was shaking himself, shaking from the strain of his world falling apart around him: the humiliation of defeat, the final flight from home, the depraved betrayal from a friend that still lingered, the vomit still burning his throat―)._

 _The opposing trainer, getting impatient, called out to him, telling him to send out another pokemon already._

 _Guzma screwed his eyes shut and thrust his voice outward, nearly yelling. "See? He don't wanna hafta face you. 'Cuz he knows he'd be in for it!"_

 _The other trainer heard some of it, and not understanding, asked if he was nuts or something. But his Wimpod growled affirmatively, letting out a triumphant, albeit unintimidating squeal._

 _"So? Whatta you waiting for, huh?" His heart, and all the blood pounding from him, crashed through his bones, clattering loudly. He finally screamed and threw his fist downward. "Show 'em who's boss!"_

 _His nerve endings frayed like jaggedly-cut rope; his head felt close to imploding; his voice dragged like sandpaper; his stomach knotted with nausea. Then, with the pain of a new limb breaking out of him, his Wimpod scuttled forward with as much swagger as a small, limbless creature could possibly muster. It planted itself before the opposing Sneasel, and―_

 _Its excited squeal distorted, its body stiffened, and a light broke out, blinding everyone within its vicinity. The opposing trainer and pokemon flinched, covering their eyes; the scattered audience to their battle began to jump to their feet, calling out in their surprise._

 _It took a minute, but Guzma opened his eyes to keep watch, squinting against the painfully-sharp glow. He could see something branching out of the harsh, luminous form, and hear the snapping of exoskeleton, the rumble of something enormous being birthed. The Skulls, realizing now for certain what was happening, screamed in thrill at the spectacle._

 _And the light unwound, cooled, softened into the fresh, newborn form of a monster none of them had seen before. Its giant body stood towering over most of them, its back plated with armor, its shoulders hulked and ferocious, its feelers twinging in the seabreeze with a vicious, bloodthirsty glee. To celebrate its own arrival, it stomped the dock, sending a shockwave through it that nearly knocked a few people off their feet, and let out a howling, horrible scream, spewing spittle and grinding together its armored plates._

 _Rather than attack immediately, though, it stood upright, joints cracking in their newness, and shuffled its enormous weight around to face its master._

 _For a time, it was understood by all that the battle had taken a pause; Guzma didn't hesitate to pull himself forward. He approached until he stood close enough to feel its overwhelming breath huffing in his face, knocking his bangs back._

 _"Golisopod," he said._

 _It rumbled an acknowledgment, deep into its gut. Its black eyes burrowed into his, and an elation unlike anything he'd ever felt flowed through him-a breathlessness, a growing pain that had finally broken._

 _"All right." He reached out, and felt the shell of its head, still warm and a little rubbery from its transformation, though in those seconds under his palm, its surface rapidly hardened and cooled. He turned his head and saw the expression of dread on their opponents' faces, causing his mouth to split into a menacing grin. "Let's make a good first impression, huh?"_

* * *

For a few moments, the entire arena was filled with noise, vibration, and dust. A wild, uncontrollable heat emanated from the cloud of uproar; there was the screaming of monsters, screeching, and pounding of earth. Neither Guzma nor Nanu could tell, in those seconds, precisely what went on, but shadows through the mist portrayed the struggle as vicious and all-out.

They waited.

The dust settled; silence had overcome the center of the ring at first, before the peace was broken by Golisopod's earth-shattering roar. It stomped about, bragging and whistling, and for good reason: Nanu's Honchkrow lay with its wings fanned out, clearly knocked out cold.

He had won.

Guzma waited for the dramatic win to send a wave of ecstasy over him, but the shock of it must have been too much, because he mostly stared, dumbfounded.

In any case, Nanu shrugged and drew back his partner. He grunted. "Huh. Don't that beat all. You've gotten stronger."

If Guzma thought he was shocked before, he was certainly shocked now.

But before Guzma had a chance to reply to this gushing compliment, Nanu sniffed dryly, scratched his chin, and turned for the door. "Welp, that sure was a thing. See you 'round."

Then he left.

Guzma returned his Golisopod, and still stood in place in the empty arena, like he couldn't decide what to tell his feet to do. He thought hard, nearly turned around to retreat, then turned back, and shook with determination and impulse. A thought lodged in his brain and would not be freed.

"Hey, old man!"

Nanu looked up from the counter. The attendant on the other side had already started the complimentary post-battle healing, giving Guzma time to catch up to him. Once he had Nanu's attention, though, he found himself hesitating. Nanu was staring at him like he had lost it.

"...You want something?" Nanu waited for an answer, received none, and snipped irritably as he tapped a finger on the counter, "Kid, if you wanna say something, spit it out―ain't got all day."

"Do you wanna…" His voice tightened. "Have a beer with me?"

Nanu paused, weighed the offer as he shuffled his body toward him, and droned, his voice not budging an octave. "Well, I had such _thrilling_ plans for the evening," he said, implying that they involved his usual habit of falling asleep in front of the TV, "but I guess I could swing it."

* * *

Guzma decided they'd do their drinking out on the balcony from his suite, where patio furniture offered chairs and a table to work with; Nanu had reserved all of his words on the trip to and through his suite, only speaking once they reached the balcony.

"Nice view," he said. The comment caused them both to stand fairly close and shoulder-to-shoulder, taking a moment to admire said view, and then Nanu abruptly interrupted their contemplation by reaching over and snagging Guzma's forearm.

The younger kahuna jerked wildly and almost socked him for the surprise, until he realized what the man was doing. Nanu pulled Guzma's left wrist up to his face, squinting at its accessory.

"'The first commercially-made Z-Ring,'" Nanu said, like he had read the phrase in a headline. He twisted Guzma's wrist a little more to see another angle. "I guess as a kahuna, I really oughtta condemn this, or somethin'." He let go of Guzma's arm. "Seems to work all right, though."

"It―" Guzma decided not to go into how much arduous hair-pulling went into the process. He rubbed the back of his head. "...Yeah."

"You said something about beer," Nanu said, evidently wanting to push this along.

"Uh, right. Hold on."

Guzma trekked back inside, and returned with a case of beer bottles, which he set on top of the table between them. He didn't think it bore any explanation, but he did offer one comment as he gestured for them.

"It's s'pposed to be good."

Nanu picked up a bottle, examined it by rolling it from front to back in his hand, and said nothing. After their twisted off their respective caps and took their first swig, they sat quietly in their chairs until Nanu opened his shirt pocket and forced out a package of cigarettes. He drew one out, then eyed Guzma.

"You want one?"

"I'm―" Guzma gave it a longing look. "Trying to quit." _It's unhygienic and unhealthy,_ said the ever-present Lusamine-voice in his head.

"Braver man than I," Nanu said, grunting. He put the unlit cigarette to his lips then slipped the package back. He had to dig into his back pants pocket to find his lighter, which he had to cup against the wind in order to get working.

The first few minutes, they didn't talk much. Guzma had a feeling a lot of Nanu's conversations were like that; mumbled, punctuated with long periods of silence. Eventually, Nanu heaved a large sigh, and Guzma thought that signalled the start of the conversation, but it proved a false start, and they remained silent for another minute or two.

Then Nanu spoke.

"I was disappointed, you know."

Guzma, surprised, turned to him with a defeated expression. "Huh?"

"When I heard you caught the beasts," Nanu said, "I thought for sure you were going to tear these islands a new one. Instead, you traded 'em in for money and fame. I guess I can't blame you. But I still think my idea was more interesting."

Guzma found this thought amusing, but had no way to respond to it. He shrugged and gave his normal non-reply: "Yeah, I guess." Guzma decided to guide the conversation to more personal matters. "Are you still, uh, living at the station?"

"'Course."

"...How is everybody?"

"Same buncha hooligans." He scratched his shoulder as he thought on it. "Scruffy's been around more."

It took Guzma a second to remember the target of the nickname. "Gladion?"

"Yeah. I guess with you gone, he's trying to make a move. I dunno. I don't play close enough attention to that nonsense."

 _Oh, god, Gladion_. He hadn't thought about that. All the wedding plans and Lusamine rambling about children, and he hadn't thought to contact, you know, her _current children_. He doubted that Lusamine had done so; she essentially refused to discuss them.

"So? What's new with you?"

Guzma hesitated, then decided he might as well confess, seeing as the whole world would know tomorrow. "We're getting married."

Nanu swallowed hard, trying not to choke. " _Who_?"

"Me."

"And?"

"Miss Lusamine!"

"...Huh." He shook his head and swigged. "You sure you don't want that cigarette?"

"D―" Guzma rubbed his thumb along the rim of the bottle. "Do you think it's a good idea? Getting married, I mean."

"Shoot." Nanu shrugged. "I don't know anything about marriage. I just barely dodged that bullet way back when dinosaurs roamed the earth."

"You were engaged?"

"Ah, yeah. To this redhead. The prettiest thing on the island. Was crazy about me, too."

"...What happened?"

"Well, turned out, there was also this _blonde_ at my job―prettiest thing―also crazy about me―"

Guzma guffawed. He suddenly admired him a little more― _Nanu, the lady-killer_! "What? _Dude_. You didn't."

"Don't 'dude' me, kid! I was young and stupid. Of course the fiancee found out, and that was the end of it."

"What about the blonde? What happened there?"

Nanu had one word, and one word only. He grunted it with no emotion whatsoever. "Dead."

Guzma opened his mouth the say something, then wisely shut it.

"Yup. Funny how things turn out." He looked at Guzma's expression and smirked. "This would be a good time to change the subject."

"Uh, right." Guzma rubbed the back of his head. "So… I haven't seen any of the other kahunas."

"Yup."

"...Why?"

Nanu grinned at him. "Why do you think? The kahunas hate your guts."

Guzma tried to push away his hurt when he followed up, "Why are you here, then?"

Nanu shrugged. "Curiosity got me. 'Sides, to my mind, those farts deserve to have their cages rattled once in awhile."

The comment caught Guzma off guard. He figured the kahunas all worked together and agreed on things. It was the first time he caught whiff of possible dissension in the group.

"They can be real sticklers about who gets to be called what. Shoulda seen Old Man Hala's face the day I showed up with this―" Nanu touched the Darkinium crystal threaded about his neck. He snickered at the memory. "Thought the gods had gone crazy. Not that I blame him; I thought that a bit myself."

"I know I'm not a real kahuna," Guzma said suddenly. "I mean―I wasn't chosen by nobody. Not a tapu, anyway."

Nanu let go of his crystal, searched Guzma's expression, then shrugged. "What's a kahuna, anyway? Alola's got this obsession with titles. Me, I couldn't care less if you call me Kahuna, Mister, Officer, Uncle―shoot, call me _Queen of Alola_ if that's what gets you through the day. Titles mean squat."

Guzma didn't know what to make of this, but Nanu's initial question triggered an automatic response. "Being a kahuna―" Guzma spoke carefully. "Means protecting people."

"Hmm. You think so?"

"It's what Hala told me."

Nanu cocked an eyebrow at him, and seemed to suddenly realize the weight of what he had carelessly said. The older kahuna shifted back in his seat, and with a mild, apologetic tone, explained, "You shouldn't listen to me. Hala… doesn't hate your guts. He's… Twisted up over it. That's all."

Guzma frowned, his thoughts still stuck on his own train of thought. "I don't protect anybody."

"Join the club," Nanu snorted.

The sea out below them glistened and rolled, lapping up against the ironcast form of Aether Paradise. Some water sucked beneath, its pressure roaring through the hydraulics that ran the place, churning wildly but unseen. The water before them, though, remained still and glassy, starred with sources of refracted light. It had gotten cold up here, the wind flapping against their clothes, but neither of them moved to retreat indoors.

"I don't believe in an awful lot," Nanu continued, after taking a steep and final drink, "but I do believe that grown folk have responsibilities towards the young folk. Protect them. Give them a future." He looked at Guzma, meeting him in the eyes. "We screwed you over royally, didn't we?"

Guzma, embarrassed, turned back for the sea.

Nanu stole a glance at his watch. "Ah, crap, it's late. I gotta head back and feed the monsters."

As Nanu stood up, a throb of oncoming loneliness hit Guzma's throat. "Maybe you can, uh, stop by again sometime?"

"...I don't see why I would."

Guzma almost got frustrated, but thought suddenly that he should have known better. He let it go, and tried another tactic. "You wanna come to the wedding? It's gonna be on a cruise ship―it's gonna go for a week, but the ship makes stops along the way, so you can deboard whenever―"

"There an open bar?"

"Obviously."

Nanu quickly gave a backhanded wave. "Pencil me in." At that, he gave one last look at the columns of metal and machinery that made up this island. "Gotta wonder how they feel."

"Huh?"

"The beasts. Trapped here. In a strange world, against their will―made to perform tricks―"

"...You feel sorry for them?"

Nanu glanced back at him, chuckled a little, and shook his head. "I know a guy who made that mistake. They're just animals, kid. But still―you gotta wonder." He turned for the door. "Thanks for the beer. You were right―it wasn't bad."

In time, the last shuttle of the night shot out from Aether Paradise and into the oily waves, its carapace blinking and bright. It traced a white thread along the distant water until it disappeared into a pinpoint on the black-and-blue horizon. With it, Guzma felt a strange sense of impossible regret, dragged like the scratch of a nail against skin. He held onto it for only a second longer before letting it go.

* * *

.

.

.

.

..

..

..

..

...

...

...

...

"Hey, bud."

Guzma lifted his head.

The beach was brightly colored, the waves flowing beneath the dock a brilliant blue; a sweet breeze tossed gentle waves along the sandy cove, where there came the sounds of splashing water and thrilled screams. Guzma sat on the dock, as he often did, legs dangling over the water, his arms slung over the railing; the sun hit his eyes painfully, so he covered himself with a hood from his jacket. He was dressed poorly for the sticky summer weather.

The cop that came up on the dock surprised him with this greeting. Mele'Mele cops weren't known for being friendly, especially not with kids. But when Guzma saw him, he realized that he had never seen this one before. The cop looked younger than the others on the island, maybe in his early thirties, with a gentle face, trim blonde hair under his cap, and relaxed posture.

Before Guzma could say anything, the officer ambled close, standing at the edge of the dock with him. He turned toward the shore.

"You aren't playing with your friends?"

Guzma looked out over the beach, seeing a group of boys splashing each other in the waves. He shook his head. "They aren't my friends."

"Oh." The officer took a second to glance around. "So are your friends around here somewhere?"

Guzma hesitated and didn't verbally answer, instead shrugging.

The officer, getting the hint, approached and leaned on the railing beside him, leaving a comfortable space between them. He was sipping on a soda, and between swallows, a hard menthol candy swished around his mouth, clicking against his teeth. He cleared his throat, evidently fighting a cough, and allowed a moment of silence before asking another question. "What's your name?"

Guzma replied slowly, unsure of himself. "Guzma."

"Guzma," the officer repeated back. "I see. And how old are you?"

He rubbed his nose shyly and avoided eye contact. "...Almost ten."

"Is that right? Well, my name's Daturo. Nice to meet you." The officer might have offered a handshake, but Guzma didn't accept it. The man didn't seem deterred by this. "Say, Guzma. Could you help me?"

Guzma looked up uncertainly.

"See, I'm new here. I just got transferred from Sinnoh―so I don't know the island very well yet. You live here, right? You think you could show me around?"

Guzma, perplexed, shrugged his shoulders again. "I dunno."

"Not right now," Daturo backed down. "If you're busy. Some other time, if you want. Huh―what do kids eat around here...? What are those donut things, that I've seen―?"

"Malasadas."

"Yeah, those. Tell ya what. Sometime, you can show me around, and there'll be a malasada in it for you. How's that sound, Guzma?"

Guzma could hardly make out the man's face in the angle of the sharp sunlight that cast him in deep shadow. He squinted. "Okay."

"All right. Well. It's not a big island, is it? I'm sure I'll be seeing you around." As an afterthought, he pressed the cool droplets of condensation from his soda can to his forehead. "Yeesh. This weather takes getting used to, huh? See ya, bud."

The officer walked away, leaving Guzma alone with the sucking sounds of water nudging against the dock. The boy watched the others play for only a little while longer, then pushed himself to his feet and fished through his pocket. Upon releasing his Wimpod, the creature buzzed and chirped excitedly, scuttling about the dock and scratching the ground for food particles.

He looked as if he wanted to say something to it, to call its attention, but he hesitated and let it continue scraping. The sky just beyond him was blue, bluer than he'd ever seen it, with mountainous, creamy clouds, and dotted with the flutter of far-away gulls. The sun beat down, punishing him, so began to retreat back to shore to find shade. "C'mon," he called. His Wimpod squeaked and scurried to his bare heels. He looked deep into the island-its life, its buildings, its people-and felt the steady blows of the sea at his back.

Far away, far down on the sandy shore, Kukui, having knocked over another boy into the water and turned himself around, spotted Guzma walking back to the street, and belted out his name.

But by then, Guzma didn't hear it. He probably wouldn't have stopped, even if he had. There were oppressive thoughts buzzing like angry hornets about his head―thoughts that didn't come from youth or play, but dragged him out in a riptide, pulling him farther and farther out, out to an alien place barren of life. It wasn't as if he meant to find happiness―he wasn't happy here, and he didn't expect any happiness where he was going. But if it meant… hope, or kindness, or the slightest taste of something good in life... For that… Wouldn't he give anything?


	15. Ronin

**Chapter 15: Ronin**

* * *

"Hmm."

Lusamine had a new habit as of late: sitting in the tea room during breakfast, placing a pile of letters on the table, and leafing through them with thoughtful composure. Since their engagement went public, the letters had come in steady streams from all over the world, from allegedly important people whom Guzma knew nothing about. So, she would often flip through the assorted mail, noting their address, humming or sighing at their source; she rarely spoke on it to let Guzma know her thoughts, preferring instead to keep her musings private.

That's why he wasn't surprised at her noise―though today, it put him on edge. He slumped over his plate, having taken food despite his lack of hunger, to keep his mind busy.

The real surprise came when Lusamine, still fresh-faced and glowing from waking up, tilted her head and said, "It's the strangest thing."

Guzma looked up, saw her puzzled expression, and waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. "Uh…" He pondered whether to take the bait. "What is?"

"Did you know that every day since we announced our engagement, Gladion has sent me a letter?"

"...Yeah? Uh, every day, huh?"

She looked at him steely; he returned his eyes to his food, picking at it. "Yes. Every day. Of course I've been destroying them―"

"Uh-huh."

"And today―how peculiar―there's no letter from him."

"Huh." Guzma shoveled a bite of scone into his mouth, chewed for a while, then realized she was giving him this _look_ , as if she expected him to have an explanation ready. He choked his food down. "Maybe he... gave up."

"Gave up? Gladion?" She put a hand on her hip and looked over the mail again, shaking her head. "I suppose there's a first time for everything."

...He waited. And just when he thought she was about to say something else, she gave a defeated shrug, flipped past the other letters, and changed the subject.

Slowly, in a way that he hoped she didn't notice, he started breathing again.

* * *

After breakfast, Guzma made up an excuse to duck back upstairs to his suite. He had forgotten… something, he said, his lie coming out unevenly but convincingly enough to ward off real suspicion.

He couldn't explain his over-caution―in some weird way, Guzma felt that Lusamine had eyes everywhere, even in the empty hallways. He couldn't get comfortable until he reached his suite, locked the door behind him, entered his bathroom, and locked _that_ door.

Alone, and behind two locked doors, he felt confident enough to pat the inside of his coat pocket and withdraw a small, white envelope.

On it, in neatly hand-written letters, it was addressed:

 _To Mother_

 _From Your Son_

Okay. So, he was doing this now.

If Lusamine found out, she might literally murder him.

He tucked his thumb under the seal and shredded it open.

The paper inside was quality stationery, folded delicately, and had careful ink writing evenly spaced down the length of it. It looked longer than he expected, so he ended up sitting on the toilet and straining his eyes at its contents.

 _Dearest Mother,_ it began:

 _I am writing this letter with ever-growing uncertainty that any of my letters will reach you. Still, I feel I am compelled to write again to express the following:_

 _It was to my shock and great concern that I learned of your engagement to Mr. Guzma. I must question both your judgment and your intentions in this matter. I wish to explicitly state that I do not endorse such a marriage. I have known Mr. Guzma on a personal and business basis, so I speak from my experience of both his antics as well as yours; I have suspicions that this arrangement is some elaborate fraud._

 _If you will not end this engagement, then I request you send your justifications for this matter post-haste. I cannot demand anything of you. I ask only that you assuage my conscience, as I do not feel I can stand by silently as you continue to debase yourself._

 _I will write again tomorrow._

 _With all my love,_

 _Gladion_

* * *

"Holy crap, kid," Guzma muttered.

He recognized the prim handwriting and tight, emphatic prose―it was eerily similar to Lusamine's, in the times he had read her letters.

He had to read it twice to really get the gist, though: Gladion was kind of pissed, he thinks this whole thing's a joke, and he wants an explanation. Given the circumstances and the relationships involved, Guzma thought the letter came across as fairly reasonable. As Guzma tried to wrap his head around it, he committed an empathic mental exercise: if some guy was trying to marry _his_ mother, he thought, he would likely not be so calm.

He noted the return address. A post office box at the Ula'Ula motel. Guzma could write back, but as he glanced over Gladion's writing style, that thought got to be rather intimidating. Guzma was still self-conscious about his own prose, and his own handwriting still translated on paper into clumsy, childlike scrawlings, no matter how much he worked at it. Besides, Guzma had no way of sending letters out from Aether Paradise without Lusamine knowing about it. No. He'd rather talk in person.

And Guzma _did_ want to talk. He didn't have many people to talk to as it was, and in recent days, he had become consumed with this idea that he had to talk to Gladion in particular. Lusamine's son, and Guzma's former… Well, however you would label it. The point being, Guzma knew Gladion enough to feel the compulsion to explain himself to him. The kid had always struck him as the sort who would listen, if you needed to tell him something. Besides, it just seemed like an adult sort of thing to do: before you get married, you go and talk to your future step-children, try to make them understand, so that there's no confusion.

Guzma's relationship with Gladion, though, had always been tainted with complications. If nothing else, it could be called unique. He didn't exactly have other words to describe it; it wasn't friendship, he didn't think, though sometimes he called it that. Nor was it a rivalry. Theirs was a working relationship, a master and minion, boss and employee―though for a subordinate, Gladion had advantages over him that he kept a keen eye on, lest they be used against him. Gladion wasn't as strong of a trainer, and physically, he was a joke compared to the Team Skull boss, but intellectually? Guzma caught on fairly quickly that the kid had smarts he didn't. He had natural poise and a collected manner. Despite being only a little more than half Guzma's age, he was infinitely more adult.

Still, Gladion, in the end, hit the sweet spot for him: useful enough to get his gang places, damaged enough for Guzma to see himself in him, and non-threatening enough for Guzma to freely interact with him without worrying about vying for power.

Besides, when the kid first found him, after smashing through the grunts in Po Town and arriving in his domain, Guzma could see something burning in him― something awful, familiar, and enchanting. The kid didn't waste time: he looked straight into his eyes and asked for work, for a chance to lend his strength. _Tell me what to do, and I'll do it._ It struck Guzma as an old-fashioned loyalty, bound up in old-world honor, almost samurai-like. Guzma was used to receiving admiration, fear, or even dumb, childish devotion, but loyalty? The kind that didn't ask questions or talk back, but listened carefully, and acted? How could someone pass that up?

Of course, he treated Gladion differently than the other grunts, because he wasn't a grunt, after all. Guzma used the word "enforcer," a word he'd heard in a mafia movie, to justify this unequal treatment. The kid was a contractor―not really a member of Team Skull, but an extension of Guzma and his will. So, yeah. He can wear that cheesy goth get-up if he wanted, he better get paid enough to cover his motel rates and living expenses, and Guzma definitely never laid a hand on him―not so much as a scuff on the head or a yank on his shirt. Why should he? Gladion wasn't like the other kids― the whiners, the dummies who only learned from their mistakes if you smacked them around. Gladion could fail―but he failed well, and he owned up to his failures with an honesty and grace that Guzma admired.

Guzma expected the discrepancies to cause grief, and they did. He dealt with it by terrorizing the naysayers and chasing down those who spread dissension. This didn't really solve the morale problem, of course, but it kept him safe from hearing much about it, aside from the stray comment that Bully snitched on.

* * *

The very last time Guzma heard any discontent on the issue, it came from a young, male newbie he had just thumped; Gladion, the head of the operation in question, had received no more than a growl and a demand for rectification, so the newbie, sore and upset, muttered to another nearby that Guzma must "like" Gladion.

The newbie didn't think he'd hear. Didn't think he'd catch on to the insinuation.

Before anyone understood what had happened, Guzma roared for everyone to leave the room, except the one. Upon being left alone, he immediately grabbed the kid by the throat.

"You tryin' to say I like little boys?"

The newbie squirmed and stammered, at first pretending he hadn't said it, then pretending he hadn't meant it.

"Huh? 'Cause that's what I heard you say. So do you think that I'm some kinda freak? Huh? Do you think I like _you_?"

He snagged the kid by the hair, tugging his head back hard. He pulled out his switchblade, and the blade snapped out, making the kid squeal. He pushed the sharp edge close to the kid's jaw, just below his earlobe.

"If I liked you―you think I'd do this, huh?"

And he pierced the blade upward, slicing against the cartilage and soft tissue connecting the earlobe to the boy's head. The knife didn't go far, but it cut into a vast system of veins, spewing blood everywhere down the kid's face and neck. The boy screamed in pain and horror, and clasped to press down on the oozing wound.

Guzma bellowed over the noise. "Try sayin' it again―and I'll cut your ear off! I'll cut it off and feed it to you!"

...That was the last time anyone said anything, ever, about Gladion to him.

* * *

Guzma and Gladion's last encounter had, in some ways, epitomized their relationship. For once, Gladion had the guts to take him on directly, but the battle, while unconventional, was not a challenge for Guzma. Through his post-battle crowing, Guzma tried to convince Gladion that this crushing wasn't personal―that he had respect for the kid, and all, but he had goals that necessitated all this. _I kinda like you, but you're in my way._

But despite his attempt at assuaging the issue, he saw in Gladion a deeply-cut sense of rage and betrayal―and though Guzma tried to rationalize it away, he could never quite shake the sight of it. He had almost thought the kid would _get_ it―the idea of casting others off in an attempt at getting stronger. Hadn't they been kindred spirits―? Distorted reflections of one another; two people who kind of _got_ each other?

(Guzma had never been good at this―good at making, or thinking about, or managing friends. How often he misread their emotions, assigning value or meaning to useless gestures― And how often, brutally, and carelessly he trampled them. Being Guzma's enemy could be hell, but woe to those he arbitrarily called his 'friends.')

* * *

Guzma could almost not believed his plan had worked.

Sneaking off of Aether Paradise was one of his more ambitious plots; so much of his day was scheduled and monitored, and so many of the staff had reason to stop him.

But the scheduling turned out to be an easy fix―he had a good excuse to not accept challenges that afternoon and evening. He fought one trainer, then made a real show backstage of suffering from one of his now-infamous migraine headaches. He dry-heaved for several minutes in the bathroom and cursed out his attendants, which finally resulted in Lusamine arriving, wanting to know what was going on.

Her powerful maternal instincts kicked in when she saw his frazzled condition―a good sign. He knew then he could bluff.

"I think I can still fight," he said. He teetered weakly and squinted against the lights to really sell it.

And, as she was wont to do, she put a hand to his forehead and chided him. "Darling, no, that won't do at all. It's straight to bed with you. We'll reschedule the roster for tomorrow."

From there, all it took was covering himself up a bit in a nondescript jacket and new accessories, and finding his way to an Ula'Ula shuttle to blend with several visitors. He waited for someone to say something―to point him out and make a fuss―but no one did. It seemed in the bustle of things, they could overlook a person covered in a hood and cap and looking down at the ground.

It had been a long time since he had visited any the islands. It had been even longer since he had visited any without being accompanied by chaperones, attendants, and media personnel. To sit on that shuttle and end up docking on Ula'Ula, while people around him milled casually― it felt unreal, freeing, and terrifying all at once. As evening fell over the city, he was emboldened to actually retrace old walks in Malie, avoiding clusters of people, spotting places from which he had once terrorized the public. He had enough time to kill to visit the gardens, which now felt entirely different to him: his view of it had gentled, or perhaps weakened, and he spent considerable time sitting and admiring it. _I missed out on so much_ , he thought. All the times he had cut through the garden, had he ever bothered looking at it? Lights emerged in the growing dusk, reflecting in the pools, and couples under parasols lingered on the bridges and beneath the shrine gates.

He checked his watch.

He had to go.

* * *

Even during his tenure as the Team Skull boss, he used to frequent the cafe with consistent regularity; one of the realities of being an infamous criminal in a small community was being recognized and tolerated in a variety of public places. He would stride into the Pokemon Center, everyone cast their eyes to the floor and shuffled aside, and he'd make his way to the adjoining wing of the building, where several tables were usually attended by trainers and their partners, and the sweet-and-sour aroma of coffee and tea filled the room.

Now, the smell was the same; the cafe's reception of him, of course, had completely changed. He was ignored―mostly―rather than avoided. As an unrecognized figure, at least in his current mode of dress, he earned a number of confused looks, so he hurried over to an empty table in the corner and sat down. For a while, he considered getting up and ordering a drink to blend in, but he erred on the side of caution by trying not to draw attention to himself. He began tapping his foot on the floor in wait; he checked his watch obsessively. The message he left with the motel front desk should have gotten to Gladion by now. He had been precise about the time of the requested meeting, and he was so used to Lusamine's ten-minute-early rule, that at five minutes to the hour, Guzma started to think he was going to be blown off. All that work for nothing. You'd think, he bitterly thought, a guy would want to meet his future…

Almost down to the millisecond at 7 o' clock, Gladion entered at the front entrance of the cafe.

Guzma stared in strange disbelief. It was like he had blinked and was still seeing Lusamine's after-image; the suddenly unwanted memory of her soft kisses washed over him, and all at once, he felt the strong desire to crawl under a table and hide. The reality of his entangling in Gladion's genetics made this all extremely uncomfortable. Gladion, he vexed internally, really ought to change his look. Shape his hair different―color it maybe―get a tan―do _something_ to get away from the haunting echo of his sin.

It was too late to back out now. Gladion saw him. The kid locked eyes with him and walked over, not even trying to gauge the room or look unintentional about his movements. Guzma diverted his eyes, but it didn't matter, because within seconds, Gladion was standing on the other side of the table, next to an open seat.

"Mr. Guzma," Gladion greeted, his voice tight and blunt.

"Ssh! Geez!" Guzma sat forward, eyeballing the other customers, and thrust his finger at his face. "This not clue you in? I'm tryin' to be inconspicuous, a'right?"

Gladion glanced over him, noticing the cap, the upturned hood, the sunglasses. He took his seat quietly. "You know you actually attract _more_ attention like that. Are you alone?"

"Nah, man, I brought my secretary, my hairdresser―" Guzma snorted ferociously. " _'Course_ I'm alone. What do you take me for?"

In an exasperated gesture that Guzma now recognized as being inherited from Lusamine, Gladion lifted his hand and planted it on his forehead, lightly brushing his fingers through his bangs and trying to ward off a headache. "Did you not think to meet somewhere less public?"

The cluttered wording threw Guzma off. "I― Wanted to make it easy, y'know, to find each other―"

Gladion made an impromptu decision. "Never mind it. We'll go back to the motel."

"W-what?" Guzma glanced over his shoulder anxiously. "Uh, what's wrong with here?"

"We'll need the privacy."

"You don't think that's a little, uh―"

But Gladion ignored his floundering and got up, starting for the cafe door. When he sensed Guzma's hesitation, he turned around and prodded, "What's the matter?" He saw Guzma still glancing about worriedly. "Did someone follow you?"

"Nah! Just―" At last, Guzma pushed up from his chair and trotted behind him, trying to stay close and tugging his hood. He hissed nervously, "People are lookin' at us funny."

Gladion narrowed his green eyes at him a second, both baffled and vaguely irritated. "People are looking at _you_ , because you're dressed like a criminal."

Guzma puffed, growled, thought about saying something nasty, then tightened his hoodie strings, shrinking it over his face.

* * *

He followed Gladion down the street and eventual dusty pathway to the motel. He stayed a few yards back, and was easily able to swing his long legs in a slow fashion to match Gladion's pace. With no pressure to small-talk, he spent those minutes letting his mind spin out. The sheer amount of nature around him dazzled him. Living on a mechanical island made him used to the relative silence of motors humming, doors sliding open, and elevators swishing through shafts. The most natural life he experienced was in Lusamine's garden, but even that was artificial, crafted and carefully planted with vegetation and pokemon. Here, in the evening on Ula'Ula, down toward Route 13, everything seemed loud and overwhelmingly sensory, from the buzzing whir of insects to the cries of wild creatures tumbling through the grass. It took Guzma a while to readjust himself and not jerk wildly at every noise.

Gladion, walking ahead of him, gave no indication of knowing or caring about his nerves.

They reached the motel. Guzma briefly glanced further down the path, knowing that the trailer park lay not too far ahead. For him, the park held heavy significance: his first home away from home (Plumeria convinced her neighbor to let him crash on their couch); his first source of friends after running away from home; the site of his very first kiss (Plumeria, standing on the steps to her trailer, matched his height in that moment, under the creamy moonlight).

His nostalgia was rudely interrupted.

"Mr. Guzma," Gladion said, pushing the door to his room open, "you can come in."

* * *

The motel room was immaculate and everything had its place. It looked nothing like a living space the teenage Guzma would have created: no clothes on the floor, no leftover food, no magazine stacks sliding about. Whatever Gladion did in his spare time was not readily apparent.

Guzma wasn't surprised. The kid lived the warrior lifestyle―spartan, military, disciplined.

As he entered, he saw a coffee table between two sets of sofa chairs, and figured that's where their conference would be taking place. He strode for it, without paying much attention to the back of the room. This gave him quite the start when a slumbering Silvally jerked awake, stood up to full height on Gladion's bed, and squawked angrily at him.

Guzma jumped, swore, and threw his arms out in front of him.

Gladion, containing his amusement, gestured for his partner to settle down. Silvally shivered, flapping its crest, and collapsed back down on the bed with a thud. Though its steely eyes never parted from Guzma, it bent its head down, resting it on its crossed paws.

"Geez, kid! You coulda warned me!" (How had he forgotten how huge that freaky chimera thing had gotten? He had faced it off in battle only once, but it still left a big impression).

"Reading another person's mail is a felony," Gladion said, ignoring his complaint.

When Guzma turned to face him, he saw the boy had folded his arms sternly and taken to studying him with keen, harsh eyes. "...Huh?"

"Your message," Gladion went on, "clearly indicated you'd read my letter. It was not addressed to you."

Guzma snorted. "Yeah, well, _sorry_ to violate your privacy or whatever, but she was gonna dump it, anyway."

Gladion's eyes twitched.

Guzma suddenly thought he saw a hint of hurt in his face, and regretted not coming up with a lie instead. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, uh― Just, sorry."

"No, it's all right." Gladion sighed and shut his eyes in concentration. "I suspected as much."

After that awkward exchange, they found their seats across from one another, leaving the table between them. The stiltedness of their talking didn't end there, especially when Guzma opened his mouth and tried to open with standard pleasantries.

He crossed his legs and fidgeted with his coat pockets. "Wow. So, uh... How you doin'?"

Gladion, knowing that such pleasantries did not fit the situation, raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm fine."

"Cool." Guzma dug his heel into the frayed carpet. His curiosity momentarily brightened him. "How's your sister?"

"Lillie is safe," Gladion said. Somewhere in his words, there was an implication: _Safe from you_.

 _Where did that come from?_

"Mr. Guzma, what do you really want to talk about?"

"Look, I didn't come with no script, okay? I just wanna talk."

"I assume Mother doesn't know you're here." Gladion looked him over. "Going behind her back… You must have some sort of spine."

Guzma started to feel incensed. Here he was, reaching out in a charitable gesture, and Gladion had taken to snipping at him. He already started feeling outmatched, which, in a conversation with a child basically half his age and a fraction of his size, made Guzma also feel frustrated beyond measure. He _tried_ to stay positive. "Yeah, and I ain't got a lotta time, so… I get it, a'ight. It's weird. But since I'm marrying her an' all, I thought we'd… Y'know, _discourse_ , or whatever."

"I see." Gladion went quiet for a second. "I saw the proposal on the news. Her acting has gotten lazy; I could tell it was rehearsed."

That was another needless swipe. Guzma nearly objected, but the kid kept going.

"She's moving faster than I thought," Gladion confessed in a morbid tone. "I thought she'd wait at least a little longer, before pushing this idea on you―"

Guzma lifted an eyebrow, not liking his phrasing at all. "Woah! Wait a sec! There's no 'pushing' here, okay! It ain't like that."

"I would have thought it was her idea."

"We―" Guzma tried to sound convincing. " _We_ decided, all right?"

"...Why?"

Guzma, baffled, repeated the word back at him.

Gladion's look darkened as he spelled out his question. "Why do you want to marry her?"

"Well―! Hey, I don't wanna... embarrass you, or nothin'."

" _Try me_."

The phrase caused Guzma to slump back in his chair, overcome with laughter. He finally admitted, "She is pretty bangin'."

"You find her attractive," Gladion rephrased.

"Uh, _yeah_."

A beat of silence followed. Guzma recovered from his laughing and fiddled with his ring, so Gladion gave him a chance to offer something more substantive, but the young boy wasn't terribly surprised that Guzma offered no other reason. "I wonder, then, why she wants to marry you. What do you offer her…?"

"Hey, man, she's got needs," Guzma said, grinning toothily, shrugging his shoulders broadly and throwing his arms behind his head.

The swagger didn't sway Gladion at all; he narrowed his eyes at him and tilted his head in firm calculation. "...She wants children. Is that it?"

Guzma stiffened. For a little kid, Gladion sure went for the jugular. "Kids? Uh, well, she―"

Gladion cut him off, seeing his waffling as proof. "I should have guessed. I wonder what traits she intends to breed out of you? Your compliance? Your eagerness to please?"

"You―!" Guzma crashed his fist onto the table and roared. "Shut your mouth! You little punk! I oughtta―" His mouth crooked into a furious, wicked smile. "Give it a few weeks, brat―! Soon I'll have the legal right to whack you good!"

Gladion didn't wince, flinch, or look particularly impressed by this explosive threat. He folded his arms, and his eyes turned cold. "Mother taught us to feel sorry for people like you," he said. "Violent, stupid―products of their environment, she called you. She used to theorize that if your sort were uprooted―put into loving homes―they would domesticate. So―Mr. Guzma―is that what you are? Breeding stock and psychological experiment―wrapped up in one?" Gladion, when he saw the rage twisting Guzma's face, had the nerve to smirk. "She must see you as quite the prize."

Suddenly, Guzma decided he'd rather not wait. He lunged, stepping right over over the table, and socked Gladion in the jaw.

The punch landed heavier than he expected, because Gladion, really, was a toothpick of a kid. The jaw popped from impact; Gladion's eyes whirled from almost being knocked out cold. His body slumped and nearly slid down to the floor from the chair, but Guzma had him now by the shirt and dangled him mid-air.

In that quick second, Gladion looked up at him, big green eyes filled with shock and pain.

Still bleary with anger, Guzma lifted his fist, ready to bring it down―aiming right for the bridge of Gladion's nose―but felt his fist freeze mid-air and crunch with a wet and savage pain. He tugged on it, and when it didn't free itself he turned his head. Silvally's face was there, its eyes locked onto his. Its mouth had enveloped his hand, and it growled, twisting its jaw into his knuckles. Guzma felt and watched blood wind down his arm.

They all stood frozen for a while.

Finally, Gladion let out a pained groan and spoke. "It's all right, Silvally," he said. "Mr. Guzma's going to let go now."

Guzma could have argued. Could have pointed out how ridiculous it was, in this moment, to tell him what he ought to be doing. But in truth, he had little choice but to retreat. He loosened his fingers, the cloth to Gladion's hoodie slipping through them, and eventually let go. Gladion landed back on his feet, and Silvally, in exchange, cocked its jaw and allowed Guzma's fist to fall back to his side.

As they shuffled apart, the pokemon snorted and worked its size between them, squawking for Guzma to give more distance. He obeyed, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to get away. The condemning look Gladion gave him in that moment made him shake and sputter. "I barely hit you, anyway!" He puffed his chest in an attempt to hide a sudden wave of shame. "Y―you gotta man up a little! You know!"

The younger boy, still reeling a little from the strike, put a hand to Silvally's side to steady himself. He tilted his head, touched the sore side of his face, and commented dryly, "I hope you don't intend to make this your parenting style."

That… That hurt, and Guzma hated that it hurt. He tightened his fists and snarled. "Tch! Shut up!"

For a tense second, Guzma considered storming out, but Gladion must have sensed his itching to leave, because he said, "Wait." He sighed and admitted, "My approach was wrong. I shouldn't have let out my frustration on you. You aren't the villain here, Mr. Guzma."

Guzma realized that at this point, he really ought to apologize, too, but his feelings were too hurt to manage such a gesture. He continued scowling.

"If you read my letter… Then you know how I feel about this marriage." He narrowed his eyes at him. "Mr. Guzma. I don't know what you think you see in my mother… But her love… It's conditional. She has no place for people who aren't useful to her. If you're going to do this, against my wishes… You should tread carefully."

For Guzma, the warning was the last straw. He had been condescended, mocked, provoked, and insulted, and now, the kid had the nerve to think he needed _warning_ , like he some idiot who didn't know what he was getting into. Who did Gladion think he was? So it was that, and not any of the more rude commentary, that brought Guzma to the point of screaming, "...You really are full of it!"

Naturally, Gladion and Silvally stared in silence.

"Huh? Look at you." Guzma sneered and waved at him, like his weakness and worthlessness were readily apparent. "Turned your back on your own mother―for what? Wouldn't let you get a tattoo, or somethin'? Wouldn't buy you that video game you wanted? Aww, cry me a river!" He spat and stomped. "You know what I see in her? I see a lonely lady who was ditched by her two spoiled brats! All she ever did was love you― so don't come at me― just 'cause I've got what you snots threw away!"

There was a long silence this time. Gladion at first looked surprised―but with time, his face changed to an expression of grim cognizance. "...I see now. I thought…" Gladion shook his head. "I thought I could reason with you. I feel sorry for you, Mr. Guzma. I really do."

And because Guzma loathed not having the last word, he growled, "Screw you, kid," and started for the door. He threw it open and slammed it behind himself.

He beat the road with his feet, as if to punish it, cursing leaping from his tightly-wound throat. The night was dark and tinted red in his vision, and for a few long minutes of walking, he wanted to reach out and kill something, anything.

But down the dusty path, Guzma slowed, then stopped. He felt the paper in his pocket and his face burned with realization.

 _Stupid! Stupid!_

In an angry huff, he swung back around, stalked up the steps to the motel room, and banged on the door. Gladion opened it and gave him an appropriately confused look. Guzma now noticed the bruise swelling the boy's cheek, and consequently felt like human garbage. His fast, enraged breathing stuttered and his shoulders hunched.

"I―" Guzma swallowed hard, looking thoroughly embarrassed. "I forgot somethin'."

He reached into his pocket and folded out a small, folded piece of paper. He smudged a little blood on it with his thumb, but otherwise it looked pristine; he held it out to Gladion, hand noticeably trembling as he did.

"I―was s'pposta give it to you earlier," he lamely explained.

Gladion looked down at it, uncomprehending, and took it. When he unfolded the check, he didn't make a face to betray any emotion.

"Don't―!" Guzma scratched his head. "Don't twist this, okay!? It's just, I― It ain't like I can mail money around, you know? And I have too much― I don't really know what to do with it, but I figure― you can split it or somethin'. With your sister, or maybe Plume needs some, I dunno…"

He waited agonizingly for Gladion to say something―perhaps even reject the gesture. But Gladion just stared at the offering as it rested between his fingers, then looked up at him.

Guzma felt anger rise out of his throat again; he diverted his eyes and barked at him. "I can't promise any more, okay! So don't you dare waste it!"

Aether's kahuna cast his eyes hard in the direction of the trailer park, waiting to hear Gladion tear the check to shreds or call him out for being a gigantic tool. To his surprise, he instead heard the boy sigh and pocket it.

Guzma didn't expect a thank you, and didn't get one. Figuring he had humiliated himself enough for one night, he tromped his way down the motel steps again.

"Mr. Guzma."

He cringed. He had really hoped to slink off without another word. He stopped in his tracks and decided to listen.

"There's a door," Gladion said. His Silvally had crept up behind him, butting its head under his arm; he stroked its head as he spoke. "It's always locked―next to Faba's office. Have you seen it?"

The older boy contemplated this, and then wondered whether he ought to answer. He eventually said, "I guess so."

"The door leads to another set of laboratories, with more advanced facilities. Branch Chief Faba and his team do their most classified work down there. When the light above it is green―this is usually late in the evening, after working hours―that means trials are underway. Anyone on the lab staff can access the area with their key card."

Guzma lost his patience, even turning around to challenge him. "So what?"

But Gladion gave him an icy, meaningful look. "You've given them some remarkable test subjects. I'm suggesting Mother isn't going to let that go to waste."

Apparently, that was all Gladion had to say; he promptly shut the door, leaving Guzma in the dark.


	16. Faces in the Earth and Sky

**Chapter 16: Faces in the Earth and Sky**

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Guzma."

When the attendant reached Guzma's suite door with the rolling trolley―he had requested his dinner upstairs, what with his headache excuse, not that he felt like eating with company anyway―he didn't have to pretend to be weary. He cracked open the door and looked at her morosely. "Uh, sure, evening."

"Are you feeling any better?"

He rubbed his temple. "Yeah. Peachy."

She pointed out the silver pot on the tray. "I brought you some coffee with your dinner as well. I've read caffeine can be helpful for migraines and thought you might like to give it a try."

He blinked at her slowly. He never knew how to respond to the fake, professional concern of the staff Lusamine sent to attend him. He muttered, as he always did, "Thanks," and grabbed at the cart.

"Oh, no, I can do that―" She noticed the gauze wrapped clumsily about his fist. "What happened to your hand?"

"It's fine," he grunted, pushing her away and wheeling the cart inside his room with his free hand. He shut the door before she could voice any more objections, worries, or helpful advice.

* * *

Leaving the island had been a mistake. By the time he snuck back onto Aether Paradise, he hadn't managed to calm down at all; spending even a brief few hours on Ula'ula had thrown his senses off, making his perception of his home twisted and strange. This place… Everything was wrong with this place. The people weren't right, the walls felt oppressive and tall, the living spaces droned with peculiar life.

He crept back to his suite, hoping that the feeling would pass, but it didn't. Though starving, looking at the food on the trolley, he could barely stomach the thought of eating. Everything in his head fired off at lightspeed; he couldn't stop racing, and thinking, and regretting, and wanting to smash things into tiny pieces.

He took up an apple, bit into it, and then gave up, tossing it back onto the tray miserably.

 _What did you_ ** _think_ **_would happen?_

 _Are you really that_ ** _stupid_** _?_

In retrospect, of course Gladion would want nothing to do with him. Wasn't that what Lusamine always said? That Gladion had 'abandoned' her, that he was a 'sullen' and 'antisocial' child, 'unforgiving,' overly-critical,' 'conniving'...? (She talked about Gladion in rare moments, and most of what she said had a bitter tone to it, like the insult he had dealt her was deeper than simply leaving home).

What kind of idiot was he…? To think he could swoop in between these two people, mother and child, and pretend like he could even attempt to bridge them, or salvage something of them. Just another stupid fantasy― just another stupid thought that lodged in his brain.

He thought about the lab again.

When did Gladion figure out his weakness…? That once he is given a thought, he cannot let go of it, no matter its absurdity. In one easy slip of the tongue, the boy planted the idea in him, the image of a Door, the imaginings of experiments being done behind his back. Ridiculous, he thought. Mr. Faba… Mr. Faba always had him present, when they worked with the beasts. For safety. For assurances.

They wouldn't…

But the basement pained him like an object lodged deep in his gut, nagging him, taunting him, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

* * *

Of course, he told himself his excursion downstairs was to prove Gladion wrong and clear up the ragged buzzing of his head. The stiff drink he stole before leaving his suite further reassured him: there wouldn't be anything, and it would just show that Gladion was messing with him.

The elevator down to the labs moved slower than usual, or at least it seemed to. He passed by the primary labs, wound his way around the corner and found himself creeping about outside Faba's locked office. This late at night, he didn't immediately see anyone around, nor did he see any lingering lights in the labs that indicated late workers; just to satisfy his curiosity, he knocked on Faba's office door, and heard no response.

So he turned his attention to the unknown.

Of course, Guzma had before noticed the door Gladion accused of hosting such deep secrets. But he had always assumed it held nothing interesting. The door looked nondescript, like any other door in the lab: metal, on a sliding frame, no windows. It could be a closet, for all he knew. A card key slot rested beside it, with a small red light signifying its locked state. He looked up and saw something new, causing his stomach to sink a little: the green light over the door. In all the times he had passed by, the panel had been unlit. Its emerald shine struck him as innocuous, hardly foreboding, a fresh color, a happy color. It meant life, it meant progress.

But it could also mean...

The voice that coached him, sounding very much like Lusamine, whispered to him: _You're letting him get to you_.

But it didn't matter. Guzma, though often an assistant, was not a lab worker, and hadn't been given a card key so that he could access the labs by himself.

He forced himself to turn away.

As fate would have it, though, just as he started to leave the labs, he noticed a computer screen on in one of the rooms with an Aether employee seated before it. Curious, as he had missed the sight on his first pass, Guzma wandered over. The employee had a large headset on, was tapping furiously on their keyboard, and sounded like he was in the midst of an argument, or at least a debate. He kept typing, and loudly talking, and typing again―

Was he doing work? Guzma couldn't tell, not from the contents of the screen. In any case, the man seemed adequately distracted and absorbed in his activity.

So, on impulse, Guzma decided to take a shot. He tapped the employee's shoulder. "Hey."

"Huh? What?"

"Mr. Faba… Uh, he needed me to get something out of storage, but he didn't give me his card key, and―?"

"Huh?" The employee wrested off their headphones momentarily, but their eyes remained glued on the screen. "Ah, look…" He grunted, annoyed, and stuffed his hand down his pocket to draw out his key. "Just― just get it back to me right away, okay? If I lose it, it'll be my head."

With that, Guzma took the card key, watched the employee put their headphones in again, and really pondered the security system at Aether, that even he could conquer it.

* * *

The labs down below did not have a particularly sinister look―it wasn't some composite of horror stories or cartoon depictions of evil basements with bubbling tubes and torture equipment. No, in most ways, it appeared much like the upstairs labs, only containing expensive and advanced fare that they used more sparingly. It hosted the trickier experiments, the sort that required precise monitoring and measurement.

Slightly earlier that evening, it was also the site of a heated quarrel.

"I'm only saying," Aster said, "a little vacation wouldn't kill you."

"I do not need a vacation," Faba countered.

The two were alone for now in the observation wing, from which they could see the few lab assistants setting up. Aster, done with his responsibilities, had taken to pacing the room with his nightly iced latte, sipping at it through a straw and making annoying noises as a result. Faba stood at a computer module, _trying_ to get it running properly.

So Aster continued. "You're on edge. You've _been_ on edge. You're beyond 'edge' and hurtling off a cliff!"

"...Hmph. Take care where you're flinging those metaphors."

"We'll take a few days off! Go somewhere! What do you even like to do? We could visit some museums, admire some art, see a concert―eat some real food." Aster collapsed in a rolling chair and spun himself around, sipping his latte and looking aghast. "Get drunk, let _loose_ for once."

"If you want to go engage in silly revelry, be my guest," Faba dismissed. "I have work to do."

Professor Aster had only been at Aether Paradise for several weeks, but he had already figured out Faba's most obvious tactic: working like a maniac when he was trying not to talk about something―or rather, _not think_ about something. The timing had been even more conspicuous as of late; the more the wedding came to be the primary topic among the employees, the more Faba buried himself in imagined assigned tasks and snapped at his underlings. Aster tried to reason with him. "I'm not trying to pull anything over on you. I just think you need a break from this place."

"Hmm. Yes." Faba's voice darkened with cynicism. "How very selfless of you."

Aster read his accusation and chuckled. "All right. Maybe not totally selfless; you're right. But c'mon. When's the last time you've been on a d―"

Faba growled a warning. " _Aster_."

"My apologies! That dreaded word!" Aster lifted his hands in mock surrender and shame, then kicked back in his chair to laugh. "Poor Dr. Faba! The secrets you live with! God forbid people find out that you're―"

Faba glared, and Aster smirked.

"An _actual human being_! How awful that would be for you! Maybe you should draft a suicide note, just in case your 'dark secret' comes out!"

Faba watched as Aster gave himself another fast spin around in the chair, looking very satisfied with himself, and sighed wearily and furiously. "Have they finishing mounting the implant yet?" he asked, impatient to get started.

Aster craned his head to the glass panel. "Hmm. They're almost done."

"...Will this night never end?" Faba, facing the computer, paused his typing, cursed, and slapped the desk in frustration. "This is only the twentieth time they've done it; you'd think they'd be experts by now!"

Now that he thought on it, Aster realized that he hadn't seen Faba anywhere near a meal all day. No wonder his nerves were frayed and about to go to pieces. Aster stood up, walked up behind him at the computer terminal, and watched over him for a second. He at last put a hand on Faba's shoulder. "When's the last time you ate something?"

Faba slapped his hand away. "Do you mind!? This module isn't booting properly, and I've half a mind to―!"

Aster stuck his head in, glanced over the screen, and said, "You haven't desynced the alpha-beta channels."

"What?"

The professor planted the straw to his iced latte back behind his teeth and sipped his drink wordlessly, then pointed at the offending interface on the screen. Faba saw it, acknowledged it, and gave Aster a nasty look.

"It's an easy miss," Aster reassured him.

"I would have―" He muttered darkly and clacked away at the keyboard. "If you hadn't been distracting me―"

Aster sucked his teeth, removing the straw from his mouth. "Bean, it's a minor error; there's no need to be defensive."

Faba stiffened and ranted hotly. "I have told you not once, but _many_ times that I do not take such asinine forms of address."

"All right! I'm still working on finding the right one. Sue me." He twisted his brow and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Um… Bean? Beans… Beanie. Fabs. Fab, the Fabulous―"

"...People like you," Faba seethed, interrupting him, "are the leading cause of workplace violence."

Aster flipped his hand, unaffected by the implied threat. "Oh, you're so sensitive."

A female lab worker opened the door to the chamber and entered the observation area, where Aster greeted her with a sardonic wag of his finger.

"My dear, take it from me: don't ever get involved in an office romance. It can be such a headache."

Evidently not knowing what he was going on about, she politely assented, "Yes, Professor Aster." She turned to Faba. "Branch Chief, everything's ready for you."

"Finally."

"We should run the ballet cycle I programmed," Aster babbled.

"Absolutely _not_. This isn't a toy, Aster. We're fine-tuning the walk cycle tonight. Cameras running?"

"Yes, Branch Chief."

"...Neurological readings are stable."

Faba worked the keyboard. "...Running through basic functions. Testing responsiveness. Let's try region alpha-two first―close and open―"

Aster, observing, stated, "...Close and open. Looks good."

"Beta-two―"

The scientists were so busy with their machinery and clipboards that they didn't hear the door upstairs, nor the footsteps descending the staircase.

"Alpha-beta-one, conjoined response… Ready for walk cycle, and… Start."

Aster heaved an agonized sigh. "...Augh, I'm starving. I'd kill for some takeout about now. An eggroll… Maybe some fried rice..."

"Do you _always_ think with your stomach?" Faba carelessly swept his vision to his right, and automatically uttered, "Oh, Guzma. Do you need someth―?"

Aster dropped his latte onto the floor.

* * *

For a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, the three of them―plus the lab worker―stood in silence. Guzma had his eyes latched onto the test subject through the glass panel, and the others gawked at him, awaiting and dreading his reaction.

Aster, after a second, began leaning toward the emergency phone at the wall.

"...Guzma," Faba started to speak at last, voice slow and creeping. "How did you…?"

Guzma, who did not intend to explain himself, craned his neck to get a better look at what happened in the testing cell, and by the suppressed twisting of his face, they could tell what opinion he formed about it.

"Perhaps you'd better sit down, and we can―"

Without another word, Guzma bolted for the door and Faba instinctively raced after him, barking orders.

"Stop!" He turned only for a second, still stumbling forward as he hollered. "Aster, call security!"

"I―!"

Guzma hit the door and opened it, slipping through as it slid open.

" _Aster_ , kill the cycle!"

"Wait, call security, or kill the―!?"

"Both! Both! Guzma! Guzma, listen to me, you mustn't―!"

In the testing room, two lab assistants appeared in front of Guzma, trying to hold him back. He threw his arms at them, toppling them both effortlessly to the floor and into the near wall with violent thuds. He didn't stop to see if he had hurt them―didn't care―just barrelled forward, until he stood a few feet from where Pheromosa walked along the sterile floor.

She didn't turn to him. Didn't respond when he tried calling her. His eyes fell on the most obvious source of her inattention: the large, mechanical apparatus sticking out of her forehead.

Guzma did not have the background necessary to understand it fully, but from what he could see, the apparatus was composed of metal plates roughly the diameter of her head, exposed memory chips blinking with data input, tangles of wires, and most frighteningly, long metal screws that had mounted the apparatus directly into the carapace of her skull. It was not merely sitting atop her head, like a helmet or an extension, but in some way, it had been merged into her, become intimate with her biology.

Out from the top of this apparatus, a thick electric cable had been tightly fastened in, connecting her loosely to a metal track on the ceiling, which ran from one end of the room to the other. The luminescent cord tugged slowly along its path and appeared to run on its power; a loud buzz of electric charge emanated from the entire apparatus, making his ears ring. The cord itself was thick, heavy, and blinked with what appeared to be small lights, pulsating in a steady rhythm.

The purpose of the rhythm became apparent, because he watched her moving under the weight of the metal, and her steps matched the pace of the lights.

She wasn't moving herself.

The mechanism―the nightmarish apparatus of plates, wires, and screws sticking out of her skull―it was controlling her.

A sensation of dread, like ice water filling his chest, took over.

* * *

 _The tentacles, their teeth, their burrowing jaws and the venom flying through his veins like fire._

 _He remembers still how his hands moved before him, like they belonged to someone else, and his feet walked in dizzying patterns, and his voice blistered, all beyond his control, all like someone had grabbed him and twisted him into pretzel-shaped muscle and bone._

 _Sometimes, he dreams about it… Wakes up screaming, with his head feeling like it's about to explode..._

* * *

The way Pheromosa moved was unnatural and wrong; he knew her gait, so he could tell… Her normally floating, elegant steps were being dimly imitated, as if a child had seized her limbs and puppeteered her. She jerked, stepped, jerked, stepped, head bobbing uselessly, eyes glassy and drooped. The wrongness of it clenched his heart in a vise.

He threw himself in front of her, but she still didn't respond to his presence, instead continuing her steps until her arms and legs tangled into him and she toppled over, still shifting her limbs in an even motion, like a wind-up doll. Guzma grabbed at her, and though he was unable to get her still, his hands found their way to the glowing cable that was wedged into the metal apparatus. Its pulsing glow, its rhythm―it still matched the sway of her thrashing, so on instinct, he grabbed for it, meaning to wrench it out and free her from her torment.

"Aster!" Faba grabbed Guzma forcefully by the back of his coat. "Stop it, you don't understand―! Aster, kill the cycle! Right now!"

The word _kill_ floated up into Guzma's brain, above all else. When a loud whir and clunk came out of the ceiling, and the cord's light turned off, just as suddenly, Pheromosa's moving stopped. She stiffened, arched as if in pain, and went entirely limp and lifeless. _Kill the cycle_ , Guzma had heard, and not understanding it, he screamed blindly and toppled over her. "Oh god―!" He began pulling at her limbs, and began desperately trying to pry the entire apparatus off. "You killed her―! You killed―"

Faba flung himself forward, shouting at the top of his lungs. "No! No, you idiot―!"

The scientist, seeing his pulling on the metal device, looked ready to faint. He lunged for Guzma's hand, and earned an elbow to his jaw for the effort. Though stunned, Faba adjusted his glasses, fumbling a second to regain his footing, and found his mind again. So in a tragic-comical spectacle, Faba launched himself yet again on top of the hysterical Guzma, pulling fruitlessly on his jacket and arms. "Stop! For God's sake―! She isn't dead; she's sedated!"

This comment made Guzma hesitate, if only for a moment.

"Listen to me!" Faba pleaded despairingly. He sensed Guzma's hesitation and latched hard onto his wrist. "Do you _want_ her to be a vegetable!? Because she will be if you don't stop yanking on that!"

Guzma had never heard that tone in Faba: a voice sick with anxiety, imploring, entirely distraught. It confused him and threw him mentally off-balance. But somehow, it also told him that Faba was telling the truth, and that his attempts at extricating her might actually hurt her. So Guzma reluctantly let go off the metal piece, but shoved Faba away, knocking him floor. He roared hysterically. "Get away from her!" Guzma looked to him, seeing Faba roll stiffly onto his back and groan. He gave the scientist a disgusted, betrayed glare as he pulled her unconscious form into his arms in a protective clutch. "What is this stuff? What are you _doing_ to her!?"

"Boy―please!" Faba hadn't gotten up yet, but gestured at him wildly from the floor. He was gasping for breath after having the wind knocked out of him. "Just put her down!"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Guzma could see Aster appearing in the doorway, looking distressed. His expression hardened. "I ain't doin' nothing' you say! I oughta kill you!"

"I promise―!" Faba, sweating profusely, and unpracticed in the art of hostage negotiation, struggled to phrase himself correctly. He clumsily worked himself on his knees and reached out for her, hands shaking. "Young man― I swear to whatever you understand as holy― I will explain everything to you in short order but I _need_ you to let go and back away before this all goes terribly wrong, _please_."

―What was that look in Faba's face? He didn't recognize it. Was it fear? Concern? Guilt? Whatever it was, it twisted Guzma up and made it hard to think straight. He held her porcelain body, feeling its warmth and frailty in his arms, and in very small vibrations, he could feel her breathing. All Guzma wanted, in that second, was to relieve her, so he negotiated. "You'll get her out of it," Guzma demanded, voice still shaking with rage. "You'll get this―stuff off o' her!"

"Yes, of course, now please." Faba lowered his hands in pantomime. "Lower her down… On her back, we'll take care of it."

Guzma intended to let go. For a few seconds, he almost didn't. On impulse, driven by a sudden wave of nausea and fear, he gripped his large hand to her face, and tried to press his forehead to her cheek, though he had to tangle his hair and face against the sharp metal that yet consumed her face. She felt alive under there. Alive, and tired, and in pain. Tears that he meant to keep private smudged against her carapace, and he mumbled, just so she could hear him, "'M sorry. 'M sorry."

"Guzma," Faba said. He actually reached out to touch Guzma's shoulder, though whether it was to get his attention, or to console him, neither of them really knew.

Guzma flinched, shook him off, and slowly worked his way to his feet, laying her flat on the floor and releasing her.

In that moment, Faba sighed in bitter, exhausted relief. "Oh thank the heavens," he panted. He practically crawled for her, wheezing from exertion, and scooped his gloved hands under her head to straighten her neck. Guzma stared at the scientist, and eventually backed up against the wall, pressing his shoulders to its cold, metallic surface, face drained, body frozen with anger and shock. He didn't move, but watched the movements of Faba and the others carefully.

Faba avoided looking at the boy and in one fast motion, unscrewed the cable, unlatching it. "Where the devil is security!?" he complained. "Don't we pay them enough?"

Lab workers stood about him, looking dazed. Aster had also since approached, and wore a frantic expression to match his strained words. "Dr. Faba, are you all right!?"

"What? Yes― I'm fine." Faba glanced upward and snapped at them. "What are you all waiting for? Demount the implant!"

* * *

It took three Aether security officers to pull the froth-mouthed kahuna into Lusamine's office, dodging his long-legged kicks and fighting to keep hold of his constantly tossing body. His face was so red it had nearly turned purple in color; he huffed, dragged, and struggled against the restraints they had managed to place about his wrists.

Lusamine groaned on seeing him. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Set him down here." She pointed at the chair across from her desk. "Are the restraints really necessary?"

"He started taking swings at security," Faba explained. "For full disclosure's sake, you should know they tased him a few times, as well." (He recalled vividly, but didn't report, how he himself had screamed at security for their idiocy; "What on earth―he was _calm_ before you started grabbing at him, you unprofessional hacks!")

"Goodness!" She gasped and approached him after he was plopped into the chair and held there by the officers. She didn't look afraid of his violent gesticulating, and instead spoke to him directly. "You've had a busy evening, haven't you, darling?"

He did not seem to have evolved back into human speech yet, grunting harshly and throwing his shoulders.

"Now, Guzma, would you stop thrashing about? You're acting like a child." In a daring act of bravery, she reached out and touched his head. He trembled still, but quelled much of his wrestling. "I want you to close your eyes and count to thirty―darling, are you listening to me? _Thirty_ , and do it slowly. When you're done, perhaps you'll be ready to have a proper conversation."

He twitched, momentarily looking ready to attack her, then began swaying himself stiffly in his seat, eyes dead with anger. He could be heard mumbling numbers under his breath.

As he counted, she directed them to undo his bindings and unhand him; they all held their breaths, waiting for him to snap and explode upon being released, but he sagged, sank his head into his lap, still mumbling and rocking himself.

"Thank you," she told them. "Was anyone seriously hurt?"

"Ah, no, Ma'am," one answered.

"Good. I'm sure if he were capable of it now, he'd apologize for his brutish behavior. You may go. Faba, Aster, stay with us a moment."

With security gone, and only the four of them left, things became awkwardly quiet. Guzma, finished counting, pulled himself upward, muscles still taut and shaking, face still a hateful red, and murder still in his eyes, though the murder didn't seem imminent anymore.

"Now!" Lusamine broadly gestured her hands to the three of them. "Deep breaths, everyone. I know there are volatile emotions at play, but let's do our best to put them aside and―"

Guzma interrupted, discovering language again. "They're torturin' her! They're torturin' Lady, cutting into her brain, and―!"

Faba, to Lusamine's dismay, took Guzma's bait. "No one is being tortured! And we're certainly not 'cutting into' any brains! Madame, I take full responsibility for the security failure― we simply hadn't trained our staff― the card system is woefully insufficient―"

"Guzma. Faba. Please. One thing at a time. Now, Guzma… Darling, I think you are mistaken about the nature of their activities. I authorized these tests myself."

Guzma, for a second, gaped and deepened in color again.

"Do you think I'd allow for such butchery within my own organization? Let's allow the men to explain their work, shall we?"

Though she said 'men,' all eyes naturally fell on Faba, who looked put upon, especially since Guzma gave him an expression that very much said: _I dare you to try and justify this_.

"...Oh, very well." Faba slid a gloved hand up his forehead, over his hair, down to the back of his neck, and then sighed. " When we studied the beasts' physiology, we mapped their central nervous system in excruciating detail. We subsequently found that their brains are nowhere near the complexity of those belonging to humans, or even pokemon. They have sensitive stimulus-reactivity, but no higher brain function."

"They―" Guzma knew enough to understand the accusation, and tightened his fists. "They're not stupid!"

Faba snorted sharply at his retort. "There's no need to take it personally, Guzma; it's just their biology. Anyhow, that's why we developed the neural implant and are now able to use it."

Aster followed up, "The implant we're using is based on pretty crude science, really. This sort of technology has been on the market for years. Mount it into the soft brain tissues―and the electric impulses do the rest. Why, it took us only a few weeks to master a few movement cycles on UB-02F."

"You're _shocking_ her?" Guzma looked ready to fall apart at hearing this revelation. "You're _zapping_ her brain!?"

"Oh for―" Faba stomped his foot. "Yes, young man, with electricity! Which is what _all brains_ function on, even yours, allegedly!" He turned to Lusamine. "Do you see the level of illiteracy we're dealing with?"

"Lower your voices," Lusamine said, addressing both of them. "Nothing good will come of screaming at each other."

As if she hadn't said anything, Guzma continued hollering. "It was hurting her!"

Aster, a little alarmed at the suggestion, answered, "Stimulus to the brain tissue wouldn't cause pain. Why, we're not even convinced the beasts _can_ feel pain. They don't have the receptors for it."

This information was news to Guzma, and it confused more than it clarified. "I don't care! I could see it! I could―I could feel it!"

Guzma flew his eyes about the room in that moment, searching for any―any sign at all―of understanding or empathy. Instead, Lusamine, Faba, and even Aster started back at him like he was speaking gibberish.

"I suppose―" Aster spoke up at last, and tried to be supportive. "I suppose I can see how it might be a bit of a shock, seeing it in action―especially if you don't understand the mechanics of it. But you see, Mr. Guzma, it really isn't as frightening as it seems."

"But _why_ ―" Guzma started shaking again with anger. "Why would you do that to her!"

Lusamine stepped in, taking his shoulder with her hand. "Darling, why wouldn't we? We can make more accurate assessments of their abilities this way; besides, what if something should happen to you? You're the only one who can manage them. What if you were to get hurt or sick? What if you couldn't control them anymore? We couldn't well release them into the wild, could we? It's so important that we have a way to work with them, should something happen."

This logic only seemed to upset him more. "Y-you plannin' on me―! You tryin' to get rid of me?"

"Oh, don't be silly," Lusamine scolded. "It's called a contingency plan, darling. We anticipate the worst possible circumstance, and take steps to prevent and prepare for it. It's nothing to be dramatic about." Lusamine laughed gently at his concerned expression. "Besides, I'm marrying you, aren't I?"

But her assurances meant nothing to him. He strained out a frustrated growl. "I don't―! Understand―!" Guzma had both his hands knotted in his hair, and his words strangled with repressed emotion. "I don't why you'd do this―!"

The two scientists looked extremely uncomfortable witnessing his breakdown; Aster nearly stepped forward, before Faba knocked into him with his elbow and hissed something at him.

Lusamine, at last, decided that the spectacle had gone on long enough. She told them, "Guzma and I need to speak privately for a while. I'll call you when I'm ready for you."

* * *

Lusamine shut the door and said, "Aren't you embarrassed, throwing a tantrum like that?"

Everything ached. Everything hurt: his head, his eyes, his arms, his chest. He hid himself, slouching over in the chair, and tried to disappear to spare himself of her disapproval.

As she made her way over to the desk, she released a long, tired, disappointed breath. "...After all this progress I thought we'd made." Lusamine stopped herself next to where he sat, her shadow passing over him. He began to go quiet, and she examined him. "What happened to your hand?"

He glanced at his knuckle, where it had been bitten and sliced open. The gauze he had wrapped it with must have caught on something in the struggle, and so the wound was left out in the open. "I… I dunno. I think I cut it..."

Lusamine continued to look him over critically, despite his attempts at maneuvering his body away. "You're a complete mess, darling. And you look exhausted. I thought you were getting some rest? Have you taken your medication?"

"I…" He realized then that a real migraine had since crept up on him. He winced. "I'm fine."

"You can't expect to be in top form if you aren't taking care of yourself. Whatever were you doing downstairs to begin with?"

In the growing pain that started in the center of his forehead and creeped out steadily, he could not come up with a lie. Instead, overwhelmed with emotion, he whimpered. "I made a mistake," he said, twisting his head downward and pressing the bones of his knuckles against his temples. His mouth gummed and started to taste sour. "I shouldn'ta… I shouldn'ta…"

"Guzma?"

Anger, anguish, and regret cracked his voice; he tightened his fingers at his sleeves and rocked slightly as he violently shook his head. "I shouldn'ta ever brought 'em here. I made a mistake― 'cause it ain't right, Miss, it ain't right― What they're doin' to her―"

"Oh, my darling!" Suddenly, Lusamine spoke with vibrant, overpowering condolence; she immediately swooped in, descending on him where he sat, throwing her arms about him and shushing him. Her hands swirled through his hair and pressed against the strained muscles of his face. "No, no, no, we mustn't start talking like that! My poor little tiger. You've gotten yourself so very worked up and confused!"

The gushing of compassion startled him, and before he had time to even process it, she purred consolations, thumbed away the moisture at the rims of his eyes, planted kisses atop his head, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Oh, my sweet, tenderhearted boy," she cooed. "They're only animals."

Alarmed, Guzma pulled his head back, meeting her eyes. "N-no!" Guzma shouted, gnarling his fists together. "That ain't― that ain't true! I know they don't look normal, Miss, but you don't know―! What it's like, when we're together, an' I can feel it, I can really feel it, Miss! They got feelings, like you and me!" Unable to come up with more words to convince her, he let his eyes fall, and allowed himself to be drawn into her again. He reached up, fingers clumsily fastening to her skirt in a cloying gesture as she patted his shoulder.

"I understand," she told him, voice warm with sympathy. "All those weeks you spent alone with the beasts, without human company... It's only natural that you feel that way."

"You don't…" He shut his eyes in defeat. "You don't believe me."

"Of course I believe you! I believe that you perceive everything as you say." He didn't catch onto her careful phrasing, so she elaborated, cupping his face with her hands as she did. "But, dear… Let me explain something to you. Have you ever looked up into the sky, and sworn you could see a face in the clouds looking back at you? Have you ever seen the side of a mountain and thought it appeared to have eyes and a mouth?"

"Um…" His memory, weakened by stress, couldn't think of a precise moment in time, but he could certainly picture it. "Maybe."

"Well! It's a very real phenomenon. Our brains are hardwired to see patterns, Guzma. So much so, that if we stare into the abyss of random data points, we begin to see... shapes. We see faces; we see ourselves. But it's a cruel trick, you see, played on us by our minds. What we see is mere rock and shadow; it is water vapor―nothing more."

His eyes traced the floor as he tried to understand, tried to fit together the ideas she meant to convey.

"What do you see when you look into her? Do you see love, loyalty? Fear, pain?"

(He thinks on those nights, with Pheromosa staring out into the sky, the loneliness of her veil, the vulnerability and sadness of her compound eyes. He remembers the first time he managed to touch her face, and the delicate, withholding flutter of her eyelashes, and the shape of her mouth, the smallest suggestion of a pleased smile.)

"But these things―they are fantasies. Fairy tales. Do you understand? You are seeing what you want to see."

He wanted to argue. He really did. But he didn't have the strength―the wit―the words to do it. So he went quiet and wondered if that meant she was right, after all. If his brain was a traitor to him...

"I wonder, too," she said, voice dwindling and hands dropping from him, "what you think you see in Gladion."

"What―" Guzma sat up, startled at hearing the name. Had he slipped? Had he said something that gave him away? He clawed at the front of his shirt and tried to deny it. "What's he got to do with―"

"Perhaps you see a bit of yourself in him. Which really is silly. He's so profoundly unlike you."

"Ma'am―I don't know what you―"

"This all brings me to some unfortunate business we must deal with." Lusamine went around to the back of the desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a small white envelope. She walked back to stand over him. "Do you know what came in the mail later today?"

He stared at the envelope as she twirled it by its corners between her fingers.

"He must have sent it last night. I know my Gladion. He's a very strong-headed boy. He does not give up on anything so easily."

"Miss…"

"Where were you this evening?"

"I was… I was in my suite."

She frowned with disappointment and allowed the letter to fall flat on her desk, before his face. "Darling, this isn't the time to start lying to me, especially on matters so easily discovered. You left Aether Paradise, that much is certain."

"Fine, I… I went out. So what?"

"Where did you go?"

Rather than come up with another lie, he shrugged.

"Oh, my," she said, sighing and placing her hand to her forehead. "I see now. I've coddled you. It's a weakness of mine―I was too soft on my children, and now my failures as a mother have affected you as well." As she stood above him, her figure loomed almost dangerously. "Darling, I'm going to make this easy for you. _I already know_. All I want from you is the truth."

Guzma, alarmed by this escalation, dug in his heels. He burrowed his hands into his jacket pockets and looked entirely unconvincing as he said, "I dunno what you're talking about!"

He expected this battle of wills to continue for another few seconds―that she would unveil some kind of threat, and he would boast not to be affected by it before duly crumbling. He thought he had memorized her patterns by now.

Which is why it caught him off guard when she reached out, put her hand to his hair, snarled her fingers into a clump of his black locks, and gave it a stern wrench upward.

It was such a severe, sudden pain that Guzma released a fast, rather unmanly scream, and shoved himself upwards by his stiffened arms, lifting his body from the seat. The pain didn't let up, as neither had her pulling; he felt the nightmarish sensation of his scalp being rent apart.

Her voice became loud, to overcome the popping of his follicles and his shocked squealing. "The truth, Guzma."

Guzma flailed wildly for a second, almost toppling out of the chair. He flew his hands at her, grappling her wrist and trying to give it a tight squeeze, as if to negotiate release. Pulling and flopping, he wailed, "Ow-w! God! Stop; leggo!"

His physical attempts at untangling her fingers failed; her grip remained too tight to work them apart. She gave another abrupt and sharp yank, and in response he hollered desperately, shoving his head in the direction of her pulling to slack the worst of the strain.

"Where is the letter you stole?" When he didn't immediately stop his pathetic caterwauling, she stomped her heel on the floor. "Tell me this instant!"

He buckled and screeched his answer. "I don't have it, Miss L! I swear!" She gave him another wrench, downward this time, and he shrieked. He bent over the side of the chair, where her pulling had sent him, until his gut pressed into the arm of the seat; he pawed and kicked his feet into the carpet in a furious, tormented rhythm. "Augh! Can't we talk about this!?"

"What were you up to? Sneaking around behind my back―stealing―telling lies to my face― Tell me! What did you do!"

Guzma hissed, moaned, and gurgled with agony. Finally, his strength broke and he erupted. "I didn't do nothin'―!" he insisted, hitting that whiny, whimpering pitch in his voice that she loathed but simultaneously understood to be a remnant of his childhood. "I didn't do nothin' wrong!"

" _Guzma_."

He sputtered his words out as quickly as possible. "We talked, is all! That's all we did! I read the letter and he wanted to talk, so we met up, and we talked a few minutes, that's all we did, I swear, all right? I swear!"

She considered, for a second, letting go. She held on to follow up, "...Where's the letter now?"

"It's in! My room! Under the bathroom sink! I swear, god, please!" At his last plea, he sounded ready to burst into tears, so to spare him his last shred of dignity, she released him. He absolutely shuddered, his entire body spasming like it had been subjected to a strong electrical shock, and he pinned both his palms against his scalp in a tight clasp, all the while sucking in air, gasping, groaning, and moaning, making quite a show of his trauma. He brought up his knees close to his chest and rocked himself in near fetal position, until the throbbing in his head could calm to a terrible, low, but just bearable level.

Lusamine gazed down on him, incredibly unimpressed. "Now," she said, her voice drained, like she had just finished wiping up a mess from the floor, "would you please tell me what possessed you to do such a ridiculous thing?"

"I―" He unravelled a little, and still had stars in his eyes; he had to blink them away. "He's your son! And he's kinda... I mean, won't he sorta be― "

The idea on the tip of his tongue proved too awkward to pronounce.

"I just wanted to explain it to him, that's all! He sounded real ticked about us, and I just wanted... to make him get it―"

She studied his expression as he settled into a more natural seated pose, and seemed to take his reasoning into account, but eventually frowned and shook her head. "...'No higher brain function.'" She repeated the phrase over her lips, looking straight into Guzma's eyes. "Life can be poetic sometimes, can't it? You and your beasts..."

When he didn't respond, as he didn't understand what she meant, she continued.

"Haven't I made this clear to you? Gladion is not my son. And he certainly won't be yours."

Guzma opened his mouth, but she talked over him.

"Gladion has chosen to dedicate himself to my undoing," she said. "He's done everything he can to turn those I care about against me. First my own daughter―then Mrs. Wicke― Now, he's gotten his teeth in you as well! Don't you see? How could I deign to call such a monster my son?"

"But, I was thinking…"

"Guzma, how many times must we go over this?" She spelled out her statement as clearly as possible: " _You're_ _not very intelligent_."

He cringed, screwed his eyes shut, and pressed his hand to his neck, twisting his grip into his nape. He could still feel the force of his thoughts swelling in his head, sending a pulsating migraine through him. "I― I'm sorry― I, I try to be― I try really hard―"

"Darling, don't apologize. It's not your fault. But it makes you vulnerable, doesn't it? It's so easy for you to be led astray, to be manipulated by others― Which is why you need me to explain things to you, and why it was so very foolish to go off and talk to Gladion by yourself." She stood over him, gazing down with a look of pity. Her finger traced his stinging hairline. "You poor thing. How he must have run circles around you, confused you..." Her finger stopped at the center of his forehead, and pressed down, a stab meant to remind him of what he was. "What notions did he plant in your head?"

"He― He didn't!" Guzma tried to summon his strongest voice. "He said things! Stuff that wasn't right! But I told him off! I told him―!"

"Perhaps you convinced yourself that you thwarted him, yet here we are. He told you about the lab, didn't he? And you went through the door. You let him influence you."

Tiny. He felt tiny, chastened, used, and utterly foolish. He crumpled in his seat.

"From now on," she began, staring him down, "I want you to be more careful about the kind of people you allow to sway you. There are people out there in the world who are toxic―who want nothing more than to destroy your happiness. I shouldn't have to tell you that such people are not to be consorted with."

For a fleeting second, Guzma felt a pang of doubt, but he left it buried and unvoiced.

"Now then. Guzma. You are going to go to your suite and fetch the letter for me. Bring it here. Upon your return, we'll have to discuss the consequences for your little excursion and fibbing spree―not to mention all the excitement you caused downstairs."

Guzma sat upright, ready to argue. "But―"

"All actions," she said, dismissing him, "have consequences. Don't you agree?"

Automatically, but not happily, he replied, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm so glad you understand. You may go now."

* * *

"It was a glancing blow, it hardly made contact―Aster, _please_ stop."

"I can't understand it," Aster mewled, ignoring Faba's protests and continuing to paw at the swelling forming at his jaw.

The two stood far at the other end of the floor; they originally had lingered for a while in the hallway, but upon hearing shouting erupt from Lusamine's office, they hurriedly shuffled their way around the corner and to her secretary's desk. It was just as well: the young woman would surely report to them when Lusamine wanted them back. So as they waited, Aster promptly began to fret and express his disbelief.

"I just can't... He always struck me as so polite, so docile―"

After shooting Aster a puzzled look and slapping his hands away, something dawned on Faba. "I keep forgetting you haven't been here very long," he cryptically mused. "Don't you know his history?"

"Well, I…" Aster shrugged, frowned, and brushed back his hair in a new gesture of discomfort. "I suppose I heard he was some kind of criminal, but he seemed reformed enough. But I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, the way that he was…" Aster visibly shuddered at the thought.

But Faba didn't look particularly bothered. "He was emotional," he said plainly.

"I understand emotions running high, but the way he went after you―! He might've killed you!" He glanced in Faba's direction, hoping to get some sign of awareness to this fact, but finding none, he sighed and hopelessly stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I hope Madame knows what she's doing, marrying an animal like that."

An unexpected twinge and inhale preceded Faba's snap. "He isn't―" Then, just as suddenly, he stopped himself, swivelling his eyes to the ceiling and heaving a tired breath.

Aster turned questioningly.

"I wouldn't worry," Faba amended in a growl, his words sour.

The phone at the secretary's desk rang; when she picked it up, they didn't have to guess what message she was about to relay. She glanced up at them, smiling and saying she was ready for them.

"Back into the lion's den, I suppose," Faba said, fastening his hands behind his back.

In the midst of saying it, though, they heard the distinct stomping sounds of angry footsteps turning the corner, and the aforementioned "Lion" appeared, dark mane askew, teeth baring, hackles raised. Fortunately, Guzma's silent rage kept him entirely uninterested in the people around him. The two scientists, though, taking no chances, pressed close to the wall and stood stock-still, hoping he would not see them while he stormed past.

* * *

Lusamine, seated behind her desk with her hands delicately folded atop it, looked much more amenable. She greeted them both warmly before delving into business.

"I ought to commend you, Branch Chief," she said, smiling proudly. "I heard from the others that you were quite heroic in your efforts to keep the test subject safe. Even taking a blow or two! What bravery!"

Faba, though, didn't look willing to accept any flattery. His face and voice remained flat. "Hmm."

"Now. I don't want you to think any of this is your fault," Lusamine said. "I am the one who miscalculated. I hadn't anticipated how strong his attachment to the beasts would become. We may have to consider a separation period."

"Oh?"

"I suggest Guzma be locked out from accessing the beasts on his own time." The way she said it made Faba think of mothers snatching their naughty child's toys and locking them up as punishment. She leaned back when saw Faba's expression twitch. "What are your thoughts?"

"Perhaps it will calm him down," Faba agreed tentatively. "Though it will affect his training."

"An unfortunate, but necessary side effect, I think." When she still thought she saw a sign of trepidation in him, she tightened her fingers into fists on the table. "...Faba, what's on your mind?"

"Oh?" Faba pretended not to have been caught in deep thought. "Nothing, only―you don't think that the tests ought to be―"

She cut him off, hearing his weaseling tone and anticipating his suggestion. "No, I don't. The tests will continue." Her eyes suddenly flitted at him in newfound chagrin. "I'm not sure I approve of this reckless sentimentality coming from you."

"Madame, you misunderstand me," he coolly replied. "My worry is grounded in a lack of viable data. You see, we do not know what impact a separation might have on the beasts. Too much stress may alter the test results."

"Aren't they sedated?" she countered, trying to snare him in his own logic.

"We still have to handle them to get them sedated. We've only managed to carry on this long without incident because of their regular training regimen."

She studied him a moment, weighing whether she ought to believe him. Her doubt became transparent when she turned to the other scientist. "Aster? Your thoughts?"

Surprised at being called out, Aster jumped a little. "Ah! Well―! It's hard to say, really. But like Faba says―a flood of stress hormones could potentially alter their neural tissues. It's tricky business. And―well, we only have the one specimen, don't we? It's a risk―"

"Recommendations?"

"Erm, well―"

Faba easily slid back in. "We have enough data to run adequate simulations for the next few weeks. We can afford to keep them in stasis for the time being."

She tilted her head wonderingly and relented. "Very well. Do what you think is best. I trust your judgement―as always." She nodded to them and began writing out a note at her desk. "Thank you for your time, Faba. Aster."

Out in the hallway, Aster tried to speak up. "Um―I'm a tad confused―"

Faba growled. "Aster, kindly shut your mouth."

* * *

In the training room, lights flickered on and Guzma fumbled forward. He spent many hours in this room, surrounded by the athletic equipment and monitors. Normally, he would come here in his free time to spar and work with his partners, but tonight, he held only vague intentions, layered beneath a knotted frustration.

He glanced briefly at the paper in his hand.

"Letter of Reprimand," it read. He snorted, crumpled it, and chucked it into the nearest waste bin. She had already gone over the details, anyway: all the revoked privileges, all the areas of the island he would no longer be allowed to access without supervision, the monitoring of his communications, the restriction of his movements off the island, and most insultingly, a _curfew_ , an honest-to-god _curfew_. In extreme bitterness, he asked just how long he was grounded for, and she tutted dismissively at his joke.

"I might be your fiancee," she had said in a blasé manner, "but I'm still your employer. Be glad I'm not putting you on administrative suspension."

Guzma glowered at the empty training room, dark thoughts consuming him.

 _Traitors_. Traitors all about him.

Faba, who he thought didn't hold motives behind his back.

Gladion, who had tricked him, made a fool of him.

His own mind, which assaulted him with lies on a daily basis, showing him things that didn't exist, vomiting up unwanted memories at the unkindest moments; a mind so crippled and stupid that it could not be depended on, lest it lead him astray.

And the beasts―in whom he thought he read loyalty, trust, camaraderie.

Loyalty? How could he expect that? Plug them into a machine, zap their brains, and they're no longer his.

He staggered to the PC panel system attached to the wall, and after logging in, he blearily punched in the command to withdraw Lady. Naturally, an error message appeared, so, dizzy with hatred, he chose Buzzwole instead, and the blue beast ball materialized in the casing.

After extracting the ball and releasing Buzzwole, it took only a second for the beast to take notice of him and, as it usually did, pose its greeting. He didn't respond, only standing stiffly with his hands in his pockets, his face dark. The beast gradually lowered its arms, scurried its large legs over the training room floor, and vibrated its wings to create a curious buzzing noise. Its eyes trained on him expectantly.

"You're real stupid, aren't you?" Guzma asked, voice low and crackling.

Buzzwole swayed side-to-side, awaiting orders. It leaned on the tips of its mechanical-looking legs, lifting and sinking its body in a rhythmic fashion.

"You're not even anything. You're… You're some kinda robot, you don't even feel nothin'! You just do what I say 'cuz you don't know better!"

As his voice started to rise and sputter, the beast cocked its head at him, and this only made his body tense with fresh fury.

"I don't know why… I thought you were anything. I got mixed up. I'm so..." He shut his eyes. His headache caused him to reach up and push on his temples while he gnashed and clenched his teeth. "You don't even know me― don't even know the difference between me an' a jolt to the head―" Pain enveloped his body, and in the fullness of that moment's agony, he lashed out, striking his foot into the nearby wall. The metal rang out, and he could hear Buzzwole hiss at its clatter.

That noise set him off. He turned, bristled, and launched himself at the beast. Before it could understand what he meant to do, he swung his leg as hard as he could at one of its legs, and when his foot met said appendage with a hard crack, the creature let out a squeal of protest. Upon hearing it, he flew into a violent frenzy and screamed.

"Shut up!"

He kicked it again―rather than fight, it scuttled backwards, making unhappy, confused noises, and the more it spoke out against its abuse, the more his anger grew, and the more he pursued it, punishing it with his feet and eventually his fists. His lungs rushed with air; his heartbeat exploded in his ears.

"Whatta you screechin' about, anyway? You don't feel nothin'! That's what they―!" After pushing one of its legs off-balance and watching it stumble, he glared hatefully into its face, trying to read its expression. Its dumb, empty face―full of nothing but big glass eyes that reflected his own contorted expression, containing nothing else. If he had some instrument available to him to do so, he could swear he wanted to kill it, to end its miserable existence. He made do by throwing his fist again, this time making contact with its arm, which swung upward, as if to knock him down, but ultimately didn't.

This restraint enraged him. "Look at you! I'm whuppin' you, but you're bigger 'n' me! You could squash me like a bug if you wanted. So why don't you, huh?" He narrowed his eyes at it. "It's 'cuz you're dumb, right?" He tapped his brow mockingly. "It's 'cuz there nothin' there!"

The beast did not answer. Could not answer. It merely looked back at him, pressing its weight back at every step he took towards it.

He stiffened and squeezed his fists at his side. His knuckles burned and began to split…

He threw his fist again...

* * *

 _The front door lay open and cast a long curtain of light into the dark. Guzma felt his fists burning, stinging―he took a moment to gaze at them, seeing his bruised and split knuckles, ruddy and smeared; the coppery smell still filled his nostrils. He couldn't stop his heart from hammering._

 _He watched from the road as a shadow flickered, then emerged from his house. Though the form was dark, he recognized the shape and the voice that came from it._

 _"Guzma?"_

 _Daturo stood on the front step, looking disturbed and afraid. Guzma caught sight of Daturo's hands―there was blood smeared on them._

 _"Guzma―what happened? Your father's―" He cut himself off, seeing Guzma's state. "What did you―"_

 _Guzma turned and bolted for the graveyard._

 _"Guzma!"_

* * *

He suddenly heard Faba's shrill voice from the opened door.

"Guzma!"

He whirled around, startled, and spotted the scientist gripping a carrying case. The man clapped the case onto the nearby counter and hurried over to him.

"―Have you lost your mind!? What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Guzma glowered at him, spewing breath from his nostrils. "You said they don't feel nothin'!"

Faba was suddenly not so sure he still had any of the boy's loyalty that would normally save him from becoming the next convenient punching bag. He felt the presence of Guzma's size and anger, and stepped back. Still, he yelled forcefully. "Pain! They don't feel pain! It doesn't mean they don't feel you bludgeoning them!" He decided not to launch into a lecture on the distinctions between pain and stress. "Now, if you would halt your tantrum, would you listen to me? You need to return the beast and hand it over to me."

"Why?" Guzma asked, voice dark.

Faba heaved a sigh, already tiring of his vicious affectation. "Madame requests it."

Guzma understood that the 'request' was no such thing, so after a moment's hesitation, he coldly pulled the ball from his belt, withdrew Buzzwole, and stalked back over to Faba.

"After the system refresh, you won't be able to access the beasts for a while." Since Guzma said nothing in response to that, Faba promptly held out his hand, awaiting fast compliance, but Guzma took a moment to stare, flashing several severe emotions at him. Alarmed, he didn't withdraw his hand, though he felt the strong desire to. He wondered if he was about to be socked. "...What is it?"

"Why'd you…" Guzma frowned, looking hurt.

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What sort of question is that?" Faba, starting to sweat, motioned impatiently for the beast ball. "Madame designated the tests as secret. ' _Secret_ '―surely you understand that word. And orders are orders, aren't they."

"But…" Guzma felt his fingers tighten into the ball, like he meant to crush it. He couldn't contain his feelings of betrayal. "I thought you were on my side!"

"What!" Faba, so baffled that he could hardly speak, shoved his glasses up onto his forehead. He looked furious, and if Guzma didn't know better, he would think he had just hurt the man's feelings. "How―! How can you say something so absurd!? So puerile―!?" Fuming, he snatched the ball from Guzma's hand. "...You stupid boy! I'm―"

The scientist quite suddenly stopped in his tracks, and, huffing with strain, swept his view around them to ensure they weren't being overheard. He leaned in to violently hiss under his breath.

" _I'm in her pocket_. Don't you understand that!?"

Guzma had no answer to that, but it didn't matter, because Faba immediately growled, turned away, slammed the case shut, and started carrying it off. Guzma, feeling like he had just missed something crucial, stammered helplessly after him. "Mr. Faba―"

"You shouldn't talk to me," was the last thing Faba snarled at him before the door closed, leaving Guzma alone.

* * *

In his suite, Guzma keeps the lights off to stave off the stabbing pains in his eyes; he sucks down the nausea and claws through the blur of colors that his room had since turned into; miraculously, he manages to paw through his desk and find his redemption in the form of pills, little capsules of promise; by the time they reach his mouth, washed down in a flood of warm whiskey, the agony has sent him outside himself, like a ghost peeling from out of his skin. He lifts his hands to his head, feeling the invisible tangle of stinging electric wires and screws that cobbled together his thinking, those treacherous mechanisms that lied to him, and in a moment of morbid curiosity, his fingers wrap about a cord he's found, a rope of distant memory that he previously vowed to leave untouched. As he dares to tighten his grip on it, he remembers― it's the same one that flickered in his cortex earlier that night, like the flash of a dream forgotten… He gives it a horrendous yank, and he can hear a snapping sound in his throat and chest.

As the memory falls over him, he loses time and sinks into unconsciousness.

.

 _"Guzma!"_

 _._

 _._

 _"...Guzma!"_

 _._

Though Guzma, at fifteen, rivalled Daturo's height and had all the frantic energy of a typical teenager, he also had the incoordination and clumsiness that came from growing too fast, and combined with the panic that swarmed his head, he stumbled easily.

That being so, if didn't take Daturo very long to catch up to and corner him.

The policeman found the teenage boy crouched behind a tombstone, uselessly trying to cower out of sight, but he had such a racket with his panting and sniffling, that his hiding spot was immediately found out.

"Guzma." Daturo brought out a flashlight and passed the cold ray of light over the ground, then to the grave. "Come on out. Let's talk."

"I can't."

But this excuse would not do. The policeman scratched his head, muttered to himself, and walked around, eventually standing before him. Guzma rocked himself, snivelling, and refused to look up him, so Daturo stooped down, gruffing, "C'mon, get up," and latching onto his arm to pull him to his feet. Guzma proved too weak in that moment to put up a fight, so the cop was successful in positioning him upright and beginning to interrogate him.

"I got your call. Where's your mother?"

Guzma's voice was trapped at a squeaky, high decibel as he found himself incapable of controlling his whimpering. He still gaped at the ground. "I dunno. I dunno. I think― she's picking something up at the store―?"

The cop flashed the light over him to make out his features in the pitch blackness―specks of blood glistened on Guzma's shirt, and his fists were visibly tattered and bruised. Though he could guess, he still asked: "What happened, Guzma?"

"I… I just got home." Guzma trembled. "We― dad and me―"

"You got in a fight," Daturo inferred.

"I got so mad, I got so― I musta got on top of him, and I hit him."

Vaguely, in the fog of his trauma, he could recall his fist lifting, and falling, and lifting, and falling, and it seemed to him that it moved that way forever, a perpetual agony, a pendulum that broke open his father's head, sent it running with what his young mind interpreted as rivers of gushing blood.

"Couldn't stop, I just― kept hitting him― I kept―" His fingers clenched at the dark in front of him. "And then he stopped moving―"

He squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn't push away the vulgar imagery or the throbbing pain of his fists.

"He's dead," Guzma said, and vomit reached his mouth at the thought. "He's dead, and I killed him; I didn't mean to, I didn't―"

But Daturo interrupted him. "He's not dead, Guzma. He's got a pulse."

Guzma found his himself staring at the blood smeared on Daturo's hand. He must have… touched his father's throat, touched the jugular to check...

"I already made a call out. Ambulance is coming soon. So are more cops."

Though Guzma could hardly see his face in the dark, he could tell he was frowning, and strained curses dribbled from the officer's lips. Guzma felt his stomach clench again, twisting with nausea.

"He's unconscious―I'd bet, though, when he comes to, he's not gonna hand you over to the police. It isn't his way. But if they see you like this―they'll put it together on their own. Understand? They'll arrest you. I can't cover for you this time―" Daturo suddenly lifted his head, turning toward the road, as if hearing something. They held their breath. But there was nothing.

"Oh, god." Guzma's head wobbled; he brought his hands to his face, running his fingers into its recessed features. He couldn't stop breathing like a maniac―it made him dizzy.

For a long moment, Daturo sank into frantic thought. A loose plan formed in his brain, enough to make him say, "Guzma. This is what we'll do. You're gonna get in the car―"

"No―"

"You're gonna _get_ in the car, and I'm going to get you someplace safe."

A moment of desperation cracked through Guzma's sobs. He started to stumble away, in an attempt to make a break for it.

But Daturo grabbed him by the arm again, making him fumble to his knees; he pulled him up, forcing him to stand facing him. "Hey! Stop! Listen to me! What are you running for? Have I ever hurt you?"

' _Hurt._ ' Guzma thinks about fists that beat and clobber―palms that bruise―feet that kick. "No," he admitted.

"Haven't I always done what I promised?"

When Guzma hesitated, Daturo reached out and squeezed his shoulders, almost painfully. The touch made Guzma lean back―then forward―then back again, teetering on an edge of something. His sobbing started again, harsh and debilitating, causing him to convulse with gasps. Guzma gripped his aching head, crushing it between his arms it until it felt like it was about to burst open.

"Haven't I always looked out for you? Been a friend to you? That's why you called me, isn't it?"

When Daturo received no answer, he sighed and wrapped his arms about Guzma's seizing body. One arm folded across Guzma's back, just below his tense shoulder blades, pressing down firmly to suppress his shaking; with his other arm, he clutched a hand at the back of Guzma's bobbing head, pressing and nestling it just below his chin.

"Shh. Hey. Goose. Buddy. It'll be okay."

Guzma felt sick all over again―nauseated―the arms about him squeezed the spasms, swayed him gently. Cold passed over him, causing shudders, and in his diminishing strength, he lifted his hands and clawed his fingers into Daturo's uniform to keep upright. His tears moistened Daturo's shirt. The tips of his sneakers rubbed and dug into the dirt. Over the windless air, a distant siren let out a wail.

"Goose. We gotta go now."

Finally spent of his weeping, Guzma lifted his head, with eyes filmy and red, and looked up past Daturo's shoulder and into the night beyond the shade of trees. The sky rent open, black as filth, the moon a dewy eyeball that shed its pale sneer on them; he couldn't breathe, and a cloud twisted into a face of pain, its jaw unhinged in the form of a silent, gaping scream.


	17. Everything Will Work Out and Be Okay

**Chapter 16: Everything Will Work Out and Be Okay**

Guzma was happy here-his eyes shut, all sensation gone. If he lay here much longer, he thought, maybe he would be swallowed up for good, lost in the dark backs of his eyelids, floating in the whirling sound of rain. The pain sweetly left his body, pouring over the sides of the balcony in thick, sludgy drips; all that remained was a blissful numbness starting in his chest and branching out to every nerve ending at the tips of his fingers and toes.

After what felt like an eternity, he peeled his eyelids open and was met with a splash of water to his eyeballs; he fluttered the moisture out and, once he realized consciousness had started creeping in, struggled to make his body and mind obey.

He was lying on his back, almost fully flat, on a long lounge chair positioned on his balcony. Rain fell on him from every direction, saturating his clothes and smacking any areas of bare skin.

He looked up first. The sky overhead rolled with angry, black-and-blue clouds, pushed to-and-fo by the rushing wind. The horizon proved too murky and enveloped in fog to see the islands through them, and the waves churned choppily, broiling like an ashy broth. All Guzma could hear in the midst of the torrent was the howling of the breeze pushing through the metal framework of Aether Paradise, and the pinging, splashing, dripping of rainwater.

They had rainstorms on the natural islands, but somehow, bobbing in the midst of the ocean during one made the whole ordeal more intimidating. He began to wonder how fragile this man-made place could be-if a typhoon or tidal wave could overthrow it. But he also knew the place had been here for years; surely they had weathered them before.

Still lying down, he stiffly angled his head to look down at his body as it was pelted by rain.

"Musta nodded off," he lied to himself. But the liquor bottle stuck to his fingers and filling with rainwater suggesting otherwise. He felt heavier than he expected, which he supposed he could blame on exhaustion, though the fact that he was drenched to the bone probably didn't help; his clothes, a t-shirt and sweatpants combination wrapped in a black robe, had soaked through, and he found himself shuddering deeply from the chill.

Guzma tried to remember how he got here―what he had been doing before he collapsed out on the balcony. Had it been raining, when he first lay down? Had he already been drunk? Had he taken something―? Every recollection remained foggy and vague, only leaving subtle impressions: the glass sliding door opening, the wind, the feeling of wet against his toes. The lost time worried him a little, but not too much, because whatever he had ingested in the last few hours rendered him incapable of feeling much at all. No pain. No panic. No racing in his chest. Just a sloppy, slurring body fumbling its way back inside the suite, trailing moisture on the carpet like a slug.

He wrung out the excess moisture of his clothing onto the floor (maid would clean it up, anyway) and made his way to his bedroom. He shielded his eyes and turned on the light, softening its sting against his vision by pulling apart his fingers slowly. His Ariados, Pinsir, Masquerain, and Golisopod had all nestled into a tangled pile atop his bed, squeaking and kicking and snoring. Though he couldn't remember releasing them, the sight of them didn't surprise him in the least. He had taken to letting them roam his suite as of late, regardless of the damage they caused.

Anyway, he was too exhausted to scold them for throwing this room into disarray. He limped past the bed and toward the bathroom. He stood over the sink, propping up his weight and strategically avoiding looking at his own reflection. He waited for the sudden resurgence of nausea to pass...

Recently, he had started to lose track of the days, of dates. But one number seared into him, inescapable: the days until the wedding. Like a giant countdown clock hovering just above his vision at all times. He could never decide the emotion he ought to ascribe to it; certainly there was trepidation and fear, but as parts of him unearthed, as he remembered things, a strange hope and desperation chased him towards it. He started to think, _if I just get married, I won't have to think about that. I won't ever have to look back_. Mele'mele could sink into the sea and out of his life forever: his father, his mother… Hala… Daturo...

Guzma dug his fingernails into his wrist painfully. _You idiot._ It was his fault, anyway. Shouldn't have picked at that scab of a memory― shouldn't have poked at it, ebbed it back into a bleed―

But the longer he remained on this island, and the longer he had no one to talk to, the more it seemed the wound swelled in his thoughts, seeping into his waking vision. It snuck its way into his throat, like vomit crawling up his esophagus only to be swallowed down again, lingering with its bitter taste.

He stepped into the shower stall. He barely had the strength to peel off his clothes and turn the knobs; he had to grip at the tile to keep his head from spinning.

The blistering water hurt against his frozen limbs, but it was the good kind of hurt-the sort that meant resurrection.

* * *

The rain had died to a slow patter by the time he dried himself off and fixed himself. He felt better and more cogent, so he was able to get dressed for the evening and make himself just barely presentable. Finally, Guzma checked the time on the laptop and noticed something odd.

A blip on his screen―a notification from his video call application.

 _Oh, god_.

He didn't remember opening the application, and he couldn't in his wildest dreams imagine who had contacted him-or had been contacted _by_ him. He almost considered not opening it and leaving it as a mystery forever, but his contacts were monitored by Lusamine anyway, and so there would be no escaping it.

He crossed his fingers and pressed it open.

He blinked hard. But his eyes did not deceive him.

 _He had called Kukui_. Several hours ago.

After suffering a near-heart attack, he noted that the call hadn't been picked up, which was a slim mercy he would accept. He cursed loudly, startling his pokemon awake behind him. This was really getting out of hand. He could take waking up in the rain or his pokemon ruining his bed, but drunk-dialling old rivals?

"Okay, whatever, just…" He spun in his desk chair, glaring at the ceiling. "Could be worse."

At that, Guzma was ready to move on and do something else, but the record of the call nagged him persistently. He even got up, wandered into the kitchen to find something to munch on, and plodded back into his bedroom, unable to release the thought. Maybe drunk-him had a point. Maybe drunk-him had reflected on these weeks of utter isolation, devoid of conversation with anyone other than his tightly-wound fiancee, and decided enough was enough.

Time to be honest with himself. How bad could a phone call possibly be?

The pros: He and Kukui knew each other enough to probably carry an actual conversation-which was more than he could say for basically anyone at Aether Paradise. Kukui was also the last living soul on the Alolan islands who would still be willing to talk to him; he had burned all other bridges, and Kukui had never been particularly susceptible to bridge-burning anyway (God knows Guzma had tried multiple times before). Finally, Lusamine would likely not be able to come up with an reason to forbid such contact. Kukui was no threat to her.

But the one, big, fat con: basically every inch of his body, his self-worth, his pride, his dignity screamed against the idea like it was toxic. _You are not gonna crawl to_ ** _him_** _of all people._

But drunk-him had a better retort: _It's either that, or at this rate, you're gonna start conversations with people who ain't there._

So in a fit of defiance, loneliness, apathy, and in no small part, chemical alteration, Guzma tried to call Kukui again.

He eyeballed the notification as it pinged-sank his chin into his propped hand-told himself that he probably wouldn't get an answer, anyway, and this whole ordeal was a waste of time. _Ping… Ping… Ping…_ It lost his attention for a moment, and he gazed out the nearby window. What a friggin' dreary day it was; the fog and wind and rain… Nothing had color to it. Nothing had warmth.

To his shock, a window popped up, and a video feed started.

 _Crap. Shoulda thought ahead-shoulda thought of what I'm gonna say, I mean, the last time we talked it wasn't exactly_ ―

He then realized the image wasn't Kukui, and the voice he heard wasn't, either. The voice was decidedly feminine, and far too young to be the professor's wife. "Hello, Professor Kukui's residence!"

"Uh…"

A whirl of white crossed the screen, then settled into a desk chair, where the image of the respondent settled into recognizable form. A wide-eyed girl stared back at him. "...M-Mr. Guzma?"

What? No. No no _no no_ **no**. This was not how this was supposed to go. He threw his hands out for the keyboard, but in his panic, forgot how to close the application.

Lillie was sitting in the desk chair on the other end, beaming her smile into the screen. Her golden hair had been delicately looped into a ponytail at her back, and she crossed her arms over her knees with tense excitement. She let out a quick, joyous squeal at her discovery. "Mr. Guzma! It _is_ you! What a surprise! It's been so long! And I never got to…! I've seen so much about you...!"

He gave up on escape, instead gawking into the screen, speechless. Okay. He was _pretty_ sure the call wouldn't be recorded or anything-that would be unnecessary-but he could not drop the feeling that this was all a bad, bad idea.

"How is it on Aether Paradise? There's always so much going on, isn't there?"

"Uh… I didn't…" Guzma licked his suddenly dry lips. "Hey… kid, why are you-there?"

He had botched the question, but she took a second and came up with an understanding laugh. "Oh! I see! You wouldn't have known, would you? I'm living with the Professor right now."

"Oh." He drummed his fingers on the desk for a second, eyes beginning to wander. "Maybe I oughta call ba―"

Lillie steamrolled right through his dithering. The more she chattered, the more she bounced in her seat with thrill. "I watch the news every night! I try to keep track of you―how have you been?"

"G-good," he said. "Y'know… Good."

"The wedding's soon, isn't it?"

For a second, he wasn't sure if he had misheard. He tried not to grimace. "Yeah… Yeah, it sure is."

Lillie gripped her hands together into taut little fists against her chest; her entire body vibrated. "When I heard the news… I was so happy!"

"...Really," Guzma said, unable to contain his incredulity. His eyebrows instinctively scrunched together.

"Well…!" Lillie blushed, the blood rushing to her cheeks vibrantly visible on her pale skin. "Maybe I was a little confused at first, but I―! I think it's a good thing, that you two have each other! Of course Gladion worries… And Plumeria, she's so funny, she teases me sometimes… She asks 'are you going to call him Dad?' which is silly, really, because you'll always be Mr. Guzma to me… Anyway, I―! Things are going very well for me, so you don't have to worry!"

"Worry…?"

"I― I caught my very first pokemon, Mr. Guzma! Would you like to see her?"

"Uh―"

Before he could get a word in, she disappeared from the camera, and the sound of bare feet pattering on wood floor echoed from the call. She took a moment to call out- _Goosie! Goosie, come out!_

Guzma, cringing a little at the nickname, contemplated just hanging up and ending the call.

He ultimately didn't, though, and Lillie returned to the camera, a Yungoos draped in her arms. "Here she is! Goosie―oh, oops." Her arms briefly flailed about, struggling with a slinky of fur and teeth as the squirming Yungoos tolerated only a second of being held. A thump on the floor signified that it had successfully escaped. "Ha-ha, I guess she's a little shy! But we're getting to be the best of friends! Master Hala says I could start my challenge any day if I wanted, but I think I'll get a little stronger first-Hau is helping me-Ilima too-"

"Uh, that's… That's great, kid, but could you…"

"I've seen you battle on TV, Mr. Guzma! It's so impressive! It makes me want to do better―I want to be strong like you someday."

...Guzma didn't think anything could be worse than enduring Gladion's cynical barbs and glares of disdain, but somehow, this gushing, unconditional affection was. He struggled to form words in the face of the pain currently lancing his chest. "Oh," he said, stupidly. "Thanks… I guess. L-look, I'm sure you got things to do, so…"

"Yeah!" Rather than slow down, she blabbed with long-repressed excitement. "There's always so much to do! I visit Ula'ula a lot! To see Gladion! Everyone's so nice to me there! I go to the library with Acerola― I've learned so much!- and I go to Po Town, too, which was so scary at first, but Mr. Nanu is so nice-he lets me pet his Meowth and we have tea sometimes-and Team Skull acts scarier than they really are. I've made so many friends! I bet you've made lots of friends where you are-there are so many people who are visiting Aether Paradise, aren't there?"

Guzma briefly wondered a few things-how on earth anyone could describe Nanu as "so nice," whether her brother had confided the sorts of nasty rhetoric they had engaged in during their private meeting, and what trouble this blissfully innocent, lovely girl could find herself in while wandering Po Town. He didn't voice any of those concerns. "Uh-huh. Sure. Is Kukui actually there, or…"

"What? Oh! You're calling for him, aren't you? He's outside training."

 _In the rain?_ Actually, no, he wasn't surprised by that. Suddenly, though, another thought hit Guzma, and he had to ask: "Does he know?"

"Huh?"

"I mean… Does Kukui know that you… and Miss Lusamine are…"

"Oh!" He could see Lillie flush. "I… No, I haven't told them." A fleeting moment of melancholy crossed her face, drooping her eyes. "Professor Burnet… Has been like a mother to me. And Kukui's been so generous. I suppose I… Don't want to make them feel less important." At that thought, she cheered a little. "Maybe I'm being silly."

"Nah, I think I… Uh, get it. I won't say nothin', if you don't want me to."

"Thank you. Besides..." Without warning, her face and voice constricted, fluttered downward. "It doesn't… Really matter, does it? I'm not going to be able to come home anytime soon."

"W-well…" Some buried instinct-perhaps a paternal one, though he'd never admit it, or a purely macho impulse to defend the beautiful and fragile, made him want to, more than anything, leap to her defense and protect her happiness. Guzma strained and searched himself for even the faintest bit of possible hope to throw at her. "After the wedding-maybe she'll wanna, you know, see you."

Lillie looked mildly pleased, rewarding his earnestness with a smile, but also not terribly convinced. "It's okay, Mr. Guzma… I know… She doesn't want me there."

He slouched a little in defeat.

"How is Mother?"

"She… She's, uh, doin' okay. She's busy."

Somehow, his reassurance caused Lillie to tighten and twist her expression with concern. "Oh… Oh, yes, I suppose she must be, with the wedding… But…" As she thought on how to phrase herself, she bound her hands up close to her chest again, and pleaded earnestly. "Please promise… That you'll take care of her. When she's busy… She gets too busy, Mr. Guzma, and she gets tired, and that's when things can get… So you have to help her sometimes, okay? She needs someone to watch after her."

Extremely uncomfortable, he muttered, "S-sure, kid."

"Please don't worry about me! I'm going to stay here in Alola… And I'm going to be patient. Because things will get better. They have to, don't they? And I think… I think…" Her smile returned, but looked different, tainted with something. "I hope you can be happy. And I hope Mother will be happy, too. Because if you're both happy, then… Maybe everything will be okay. Don't you think?"

Guzma had nothing to say.

Lillie, looking like a huge weight had been lifted from her, stood up out of her chair. "I'll get Kukui for you. It was so nice talking to you! I feel like I know you so much better now."

He wasn't sure how that was possible, seeing as he hardly said anything. He clumsily agreed, "Same here."

As Lillie disappeared from the screen, the room darkened in her absence. As he waited, he began to reflect on her: she was so, so unlike her mother. Absently, he wondered if she didn't take more after her father-after Mohn. He fidgeted with a pen thinking about it; he didn't even know what the man was like, so it could only ever remain a theory, but it felt odd, pondering the personality of Lusamine's previous husband. Of their father.

A discomfort squirmed inside him. Sometimes, he felt like an intruder here… An interloper. Like he's replacing someone who oughtn't be replaced...

* * *

Dinners between Lusamine and Guzma continued to occur promptly at seven in the evening every night; tonight, he purposefully arrived ten minutes late, just to see her sitting there, expression cold with annoyance.

"You're late," Lusamine told him, like he didn't know. A few servants flew in, placing dishes at the seat reserved for him.

"Uh-huh."

"An apology would be appropriate."

"Uh-huh," he repeated, giving her a defiant glare.

She studied him a second, smiled knowingly, and gestured for him to take a seat. "I see: setting the tone, as usual. Very well." She said nothing else as he sat.

The dining hall used to be a source of glitz and wonder. It captured a stuffiness and formality that initially intimidated him to the point where he could hardly eat, lest he do something wrong. The walls overlooked him with fine white-and-gold, large mirrors that captured every bit of light, chandeliers glinting with crystals, floral centerpieces. But quickly, this all became routine. The colors and textures dulled. What used to be things of admiration turned to targets of his frustration and loathing.

He collapsed hard in his seat and a servant brought his meal. The same, over-prepared, overly-complex crap they foisted on him every night. He took a few small bites, then lazily scooped around it with his fork, disassembling it, destroying whatever artistry to chef had put into it. Once the food became a disordered pile of mush, he seemed satisfied and pushed the plate aside.

"You know," Lusamine said suddenly, "you would get more out of dinner if you actually ate it."

"I ain't hungry." He flaunted his poor grammar, and she professionally disregarded it.

"You say that every night."

"Yeah, well..." He grouchily pressed the tines of his fork into the palm of his hand, until small, white impressions formed. He repeated the jabbing several times and eyed her with blatant disdain. "You're not my mom."

She paused her own eating to examine him, noting his sluggish stupor, the droop of his eyelids, and the sourness of his expression. She came to an easy conclusion. "On another bender, were we?" She sighed to show how disappointed she was. "You may as well get all of that out of your system now, because once we're married, you aren't going to continue drinking yourself to death."

" _Okay_ ," he said, tilting his head aggressively and drenching the word with sarcasm.

"Must you spend every evening acting like a surly teenager? This isn't about your loss today, is it?"

Guzma shrugged and thumbed his glass of water. "No. I don't care."

"It was your third loss of this week."

" _So_?"

She couched her language to try and ease his hostility. "Maintaining a healthy win-loss ratio is critical."

"If you think I'm not doing my job, then fire me," he snapped at her.

She had lifted a bite of food to her mouth, but stopped mid-bite to chide him. "Guzma, be serious."

"What's it even matter?" Seemingly his last line of argument, he brought his elbows up onto the table and folded his arms, slouching and resting his chin against them. He looked to her a second, measuring her irritability, then admired the condensation on his water glass.

"That's a very productive attitude you've adopted," Lusamine said, not willing to give him the satisfaction of upsetting her.

As she spoke, a servant emerged from the kitchen, spotted Guzma with his unattended plate, and uneasily approached. Once they stood at a cautious, appropriate distance, they cleared their throat. "M-Master Guzma."

He lifted his head jerkily at them. "What!?"

"Are you-um― finished? With your…?"

"Yeah, I'm freakin' done! You can't tell!?" He shoved the plate along the table, nearly knocking it off the ledge; when the servant jumped for it to rescue it from the fall, Guzma, out of frustration and a streak of sadistic amusement, stuck his fingers inside his water glass and flicked droplets at their face, making them flinch. "Idiot," he snarled, watching them hurry back into the kitchen. He turned to steam in Lusamine's direction. "Are all your staff retarded or somethin'?"

She watched this spectacle and looked entirely unamused. She balanced her wine glass in her hand, swirling the red liquid to-and-fro. "Darling, I'd appreciate if you didn't abuse the help. It's not dignified."

Guzma snorted harshly and looked ready to say something in reply, but his eyebrows furrowed, and he decided to make an unrelated announcement. "I'm bored," he said.

"Oh?"

"There's nothing to do on this stupid island."

Lusamine took a sip of her wine and folded her legs under the table. "I think we know who to blame for that."

He smashed the table with his fist, successfully startling her. "Don't gimme that bull!" he frothed. "I got rights 'n' stuff!"

"Oh, heavens." She rolled her eyes in exasperation. This was how he opened practically all discussions now. "What is it now? What do you want?"

"I wanna have company over," he said sternly, like it meant everything in the world.

"We have company over nearly every night."

"No! That ain't what I mean! I wanna invite people _I_ know. Like, for me."

The request made her look exhausted already. "Darling, I cannot even _begin_ to fathom who―"

He blurted, "Kukui."

"You―" Lusamine started to say something, then the name hit her. She lifted her eyebrows at him, like she expected this to be a trick. "Kukui? The Professor?"

"Yeah." Guzma saw her expression of distrust. "What?"

Though she did not say it aloud, she had always gotten the impression Guzma and Kukui were firmly estranged. Guzma had certainly never exhibited any positive feelings about him. This was uncharacteristic, an unpredictable move on his part-and Lusamine despised unpredictability. "Oh, nothing. I only―" She shook her head irritably. "Aren't he and his wife going to be at the wedding, dear?" Lusamine had extended an invitation mostly as a formality, and hadn't expected Guzma to take any interest in it.

"No, they… I, I just talked to him, and they can't. Stuck on some research project―or something."

She dwelled on the fact that he had made such a transparently desperate gesture. "Hmm. That's a shame."

"So… They should come over," he went on, trying to force her to follow his logic.

"That would be nice," she said blandly.

He waited a second, then slid in, "...This week?"

"Oh, goodness, no."

Guzma shocked her by immediately grousing. " _You_ said they're a lovely couple."

"So I did." She glanced up at the ceiling remorsefully. "So they _are_. Your point being?"

"Then why not?"

"Darling, it's really quite impossible. With all the last minute planning that needs doing, we're completely booked."

"Not completely! We could―squeeze them in on somethin' else!" He frantically thought through their day. Dinners were always overtaken with banquets or parties or foreign visitors who had accents he couldn't make out. Lunches were pitifully small, usually eaten quickly between appointments. "They could come over for breakfast, couldn't they?"

Lusamine sighed disagreeably. "Mornings are for quiet and self-reflection, not socialization."

" _One_ morning. Two hours, tops."

"We're not negotiating, Guzma."

"C'mon, Miss L! I promised they'd be able to see us before the wedding!"

It was a lie, and a bold one, but he knew how she felt about promises. He watched her stiffen with anger and set down her wine. "―Why on earth would you make such a promise, knowing our―?"

Guzma waited.

His patience rewarded him; though she clenched her shaking fists and folded her arms to show her disapproval, she gradually wore down, calling on a nearby servant. "Send an invitation to Professor Kukui and Burnet. For Thursday morning, eight sharp." She shot him a stern look as she snatched up her wine again. "I don't want to hear any more complaining this week."

A smug, satisfied grin on his face made her instantly regret her acquiescence, as did his goofy response, which he delivered while slumping back in his seat and throwing his arm over the back of his chair. "Whatever you say, babe."

The amount of loathing she communicated with her eyes, darting over the rim of her wine glass, was truly a sight to behold.

* * *

As if to welcome the professors, the weather on the morning of their visit lifted the recent pattern of rain, breaking open a blue sky and warm sun to shine its brilliance on the waves. Lusamine decided the breakfast would take place out on the roof terrace, which overlooked both the garden and the open sea, as the temperature was mild and the wind, quiet. While they waited, Lusamine sat beneath the parasol mounted over one of the tables, disregarding the busyness of the employees who set utensils and brought trolleys of beverages and food. She wore a floral lavender dress with a matching sun-hat, their oriental cut and design strikingly _haute couture_ , and dark glasses that gave her the look of a woman avoiding attention. While he didn't put in so much effort, Guzma had deliberately decided not to show up in a robe or wife-beater. A simple button-down collar shirt; just to pretend he cared a little.

"We couldn't have asked for better weather," Lusamine sighed, checking her watch.

Was all their conversation going to be this benign? He privately hoped not. He grunted and leaned against the railing that faced the sea. He had already watched the shuttle dart inward from Mele'mele, so he knew they were on the island by now.

Guzma supposed he ought to feel nervous, if only a little: the last time they properly spoke (before the stilted phone call that initiated this meeting) was shortly after Kukui tried out for Captain and didn't make it. Guzma, happy to see the model kid not succeed for once, sourly mocked him for his failure; Kukui, though, didn't seem terribly bothered, laughing and shrugging and saying something about a 'plan B,' which Guzma too late realized meant leaving the islands. So unceremoniously, without really saying goodbye, Kukui left, and all their complexities, all their unresolved conflicts, were dragged out to sea.

Kukui sent him the occasional letter, at first. But Guzma threw them away, muttering 'good riddance,' and it took only a few months for the flow of unanswered letters to evaporate.

The worst insult, though, was upon Kukui's return a few years later. All swagger, wearing a lab coat and claiming to be a 'professor'-getting married to his high school sweetheart-settling in easily as a beloved and respected member of the community. All grown up. All happy-good-fine. He had wanted to punch the guy in the face.

Things felt different now, though. A little. Maybe he was growing up; he wasn't sure.

Before he could pick that apart, though, Kukui and Burnet appeared.

As in his imagination, the couple seemed to glow when they stood together, sunny smiles and colors, Kukui's arm resting on her waist. Guzma noted two things immediately: One, Kukui was wearing a shirt for once. Two, Burnet looked ecstatic, which contrasted against Kukui's more cautious optimism.

She carried a few bundles in her arms, which she quickly foisted off to Kukui. "Oh my gosh!"

The petite, white-haired woman had a deeper voice than Guzma expected―crackling and lively, like a roaring fire. He realized then he had never properly met her as an adult, which made her sudden approach rather alarming. She practically ran up to him, and before he could get a word in, she threw her arms around him.

Guzma froze. "Uh…"

"We're here! Isn't this exciting?"

Kukui read Guzma's expression and chuckled. "Sweetie, you're scaring him."

"I'm sorry!" She let go and grinned at him. "But it's been a really long time, hasn't it? And now you're getting married! Congratulations!" Burnet pointed at the items she had handed Kukui, and the couple proceeded to rattle back-and-forth. "I brought a quiche!"

"She makes a mean quiche."

"And some champagne! And orange juice!"

"She was going to bring wine―"

"But then I thought, let me bring something we can share! So, mimosas! Ahh, I'm so excited!"

When Lusamine appeared, she effortlessly took on a more vibrant posture to greet Burnet; the two embraced and spoke easy niceties.

"You really didn't need to bring anything, dear."

"Oh, it's fine! It was no trouble at all! How _are_ you? Is everything―?"

Guzma's attention on the women was briefly interrupted by a thump to the arm. He turned and saw Kukui, who adjusted the green frames of his glasses and greeted him with a simple smile. "Hey."

Guzma stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Hey," he answered back.

They ran out of things to say at that point, and clung to silence until the women called them over and breakfast could begin.

* * *

Guzma had forgotten what it sounded like: genuine laughter. Not the condescending, snarky, cruel, or self-important kind. As the married couple sat across from them, both gabbing away and sharing stories about their research, effortlessly taking turns, teasing each other, touching each other, giggling and chuckling-Guzma looked on them as if they were alien life-forms, new species dredged from a hitherto unknown world.

For a time, he felt like he had done something horribly wrong, inviting such happy people here. He nearly wanted to tell them to tone it down.

Throughout the meal, the professors carried most of the talking. Lusamine gave polite replies but seemed distracted; Guzma couldn't keep up, and most of the time, couldn't think of anything meaningful to say, so he sat back and let them fill the silence. As it went on, the contrast… Sharpened. Burnet and Kukui, all over each other; Lusamine and Guzma, seeming to just barely stomach sitting next to one another. In an attempt at bridging the gap, at one point, Guzma brazenly reached over his arm about Lusamine's shoulders, touching the skin of her arm. She stiffened, laughed under her breath to mask her nerves, and let her flesh crawl with resistance.

He let her go after a few seconds and resumed hopelessly poking at his food.

"So…" Kukui drummed his fingers on his leg. "There a bachelor party in the works, or what?"

Guzma snorted, trying to keep a straight face; Lusamine subtly rolled her eyes; Burnet crossly said, "Kukui, no."

"What! I'm just asking. It could be, you know, tasteful. No strippers."

" _Kukui_."

"All right!" He threw up his hands in surrender. "No bachelor party. Probably." Kukui met Guzma's eyes and winked.

"I… uh…" Guzma attempted to speak, and played with his food as he did. "Wouldn't really have anybody to invite, anyway…"

Just as he began to realize how pathetically stupid it was to say that, Lusamine gracefully inserted herself in the conversation. "Growing up on the same island together… You must have all been schoolmates."

"Oh, sure!" Burnet sipped on what was now her third mimosa, and her face was subtly flushed to show it. "Well, these two were a little more than that."

"Oh?" Lusamine perked up, finally hearing information that she could make use of. "You were friends?"

Kukui and Guzma, for a second, didn't look at one another.

But Burnet babbled happily. "You should have seen them! Running around, having adventures together―you know, those boy things: throwing rocks, pestering girls―" She gave Kukui a cross, but also teasing look. "Especially me."

Kukui laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "Courtship's rough at that age."

Guzma checked the temperature next to him. Lusamine sat primly upright, fork and knife balanced perfectly between her fingers. She cut into a pastry and did her best to maintain a facade of uninterest. For a while, Guzma watched her out of the corner of his eye, measuring her, contemplating what to expect. A swelling of defiance rose up in him, making him sit with a question on his lips, ready to be launched.

He looked down at his plate, narrowed his eyes...

―And he said it.

"How's Lillie?"

Though he didn't look up, he could hear Lusamine's fork screech against her plate.

Burnet answered him. "Lillie? She's doing fine. She and Hau spend a lot of time together… Oh, and she's caught her first pokemon, too! She's really starting to come out of her shell."

Kukui looked like he wanted to say something, but he hesitated to interrupt.

"She goes to Ula'ula quite a bit these days to see her new friends. They're a little―unusual, but at least Nanu keeps an eye on her." Only after divulging this tidbit, did Burnet blink and realize something. "Wait… How do you know Lillie?"

"We… uh…" Guzma carefully avoided Lusamine's heated gaze. "Ran into each other. A while back." The married couple, clearly curious, didn't let up their questioning stares, so he shrugged and elaborated, "She was runnin' with that Kanto trainer―"

"Ah, you must mean our first Champ!" Kukui glowed with clear pride. "Yeah, that did Lillie some real good!"

"Are they… Uh…" He tried to think of a way to not sound _too_ eager to know. "Still around?"

"Ah-nah." Kukui waved. "They decided to hit up another region-enter a new league. I guess they got that itch. Plenty of Champs do."

Burnet added, "Lillie planned on going with them, but she changed her mind at the last minute."

Lillie definitely didn't mention that, but Guzma suddenly realized he knew why she chose not to leave. He couldn't help it-his eyes swivelled to Lusamine, who met his gaze only a second before she turned away and made a desperate leap for a different subject.

"Professor Kukui," Lusamine addressed, not entirely controlling the unnerved tremble in her voice, "How _is_ that League of yours faring?"

"It's great, ma'am! I was worried for a while there it would be overshadowed by your deal here, but it's actually been a good thing, yeah! Lots of visitors from around the world, all here to check out Alola! Tourism has been booming! Lots of people challenging the League, too! So I guess I oughta thank you both."

All of a sudden, Lusamine dropped her fork to her plate and pressed a hand to her face. She swayed unevenly.

The professors both looked to her in alarm; Guzma, not expecting it, didn't react, but fortunately she had the strength to prop herself up on the table.

"Madame Lusamine?" Burnet reached across and grabbed for her hand. "Are you alright?"

"Oh," she said, her voice faint, "I'm all right. I only… I feel a little light-headed." She pushed herself out of her seat. "Professor Burnet, would you walk with me?"

"Of course… Here…" Burnet helped her up the rest of the way, and said to them, "You go ahead and talk without us for a while, okay?"

 _Oh… Great._

* * *

Once they were left alone, Kukui and Guzma of course didn't immediately start talking. The eating had more-or-less finished, so they took sips of their drinks on occasion, but that was about it.

Finally, Guzma grunted and stood up.

He approached the railing that faced seaward, and wrapped his fingers about the top bar. He leaned hard against it with his chest, so that if he dipped his head down, he could see the lowers platforms of the island, dotted with tiny, white employees. He looked out from there, out into the busy sea, and in a familiarly cowardly way, waited for the conversation to be brought to him.

Kukui, at least, had the courage to ignore Guzma's attempt at escape and join him at the railing. He threw his own dark-colored forearms over the top, and pinned one foot on the bottom of the railing in a strangely juvenile, fidgeting gesture.

After a long while, Kukui looked over at him, judged him, and said, "Man, you look different."

Guzma hunched over harder.

"I think it's mostly the hair." Kukui cocked his head to the side. "You ever miss the white?"

Guzma snorted and gave him a scornful look. "What, you wanna trade fashion tips or somethin'?"

"Ha!" Kukui cheerfully accepted his sneering. "Guess not." He thought on something, folding his arms under his chest as he decided to share it. "...Do you remember," Kukui started, "that summer I got in my head that we were going to build a fort in the woods? Just the two of us? And neither us knew what we were doing, so by the second day, I borrowed your knife and ended up slipping and cutting my hand down to the bone?"

Guzma sucked in a breath at the visceral memory. He gruffed, not sure where this was going. "Uh, yeah. I remember you crying like a huge baby."

"Yeah! Man, I was freaked. Bleeding everywhere―thought I was gonna die or something―knew my parents were gonna kill me―but you were real calm. I remember that. Had me press it on something-a shirt maybe? I wanted to go home, but you convinced me to go straight to the doctor―you even walked me there." Kukui laughed. "You made me swear, what, twenty times not to say it was your knife. 'You fell on a sharp rock,' you kept telling me. Ha-ha. Man. Those stitches were gnarly. Remember that? I got a real kick out of grossing out the girls down the road…" He sighed nostalgically and slumped his shoulders. "Crazy."

"Yeah," Guzma agreed.

"Hey, cousin, can I―" Kukui started, then uncharacteristically hesitated, rubbing his neck and laughing over his nerves. "Can I level with you?"

Guzma blinked at him, implying assent.

"The invitation was a big surprise in itself, but getting a call from you? It… Threw me for a loop, there."

Guzma wanted to say, _same here_.

"Not a bad loop! A good loop, yeah? After not hearing from you in so long-and, well, it's really been years, hasn't it? Since we really…"

Guzma had never thought of Kukui as someone who struggled to put get words out. To the contrary, he had always been an easy blabbermouth. Yet here he was, tapping his chin and cutting his sentences short.

"I wasn't…" Kukui put some thought into his phrasing, and spoke with an uncertain smile on his face. "A very good friend, was I?"

That Kukui had the guts to put the label on it-against their unspoken rule, which had resisted the word, or contorted it into something more vague: acquaintance, neighbor, peer, schoolmate-made the statement really mean something. Guzma didn't understand why Kukui was trying to imply he was at fault, though. "Whatta you talking about?"

"It was real crazy, yeah? After I left for Kanto-came back, ready to be a professor, and I asked around: hey, where's my man Guzma, what's he up to? And everyone tells me…" He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm tellin' you, cuz―I thought, that's not who I knew, they gotta be pulling my leg. But it was true. So it's gotta follow, yeah? I tried to say we were friends, but... We were neighbors―grew up together―all those summers we spent running around― and yeah, the trials, too. We had plenty of chances to get to know each other, but we never did, huh?"

"We were just little kids. It's not like…" Guzma didn't know how to put his regret into words. "It's not like kids have deep conversations, or anything."

"Yeah," Kukui assented, though he didn't sound fully convinced. "Guess not."

"Why did you even bother?"

"Huh?"

"You had other friends, and I was a huge jerk to you."

"Hey!" Kukui grinned. "You were a jerk to everybody; I didn't take it personally."

Guzma frowned and rolled his eyes gently. "...Tch. Well, you _should_ have."

Kukui guffawed loudly at his crack. "You didn't like me at all, huh, cuz?"

"No, I didn't, because you were the worst," Guzma said. "You were the _worst freakin' kid_."

"Ha-ha! You're right, I was, wasn't I? I was kinda pushy, yeah, kinda bossed you around for the most part―"

 _And I hated you_ , Guzma thought, but didn't dare say, _because you were happy-happy family, happy friends, happy school-days; everything worked out for you, and I hated it._

"Anyway. I don't know, I guess… I decided to try anyway. You seemed kinda…"

 _Depressed? Pathetic? Lonely?_

"Like you needed a friend." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Kinda stupid, huh? I mean, I get it now-you just liked to be left alone. Hope I didn't drive you too crazy."

... _Why am I like this?_ How had he managed to nurture such strong feelings of hatred, resentment, and bitterness for all those years against a doofus like this? And now, with the guy standing in front of him, where he can see him for who he really is-just another imperfect human, with incomplete understanding, trying to make sense of the world-Guzma sees the snarled clump of anger in himself, and thinks: I'm the dumbest, biggest, pettiest idiot that ever lived. The only kid on the entire island who didn't hate his guts, and he had to push him away, because he was what, too proud? Too self-absorbed? Too jealous? (The only people he ever gravitated towards were those as damaged as he was-those who sold themselves as troubled souls.) "I shoulda―" The phrase lept from his mouth before he could stop it, and he mentally kicked himself.

But Kukui looked at him quizzically, which meant he would have to finish.

So he mumbled, embarrassed, "I shoulda let… I mean, we shoulda been…"

"Hey!" Kukui waved a hand, quick to spot and argue against his melancholy. "No need to pull a long face, cousin! The past is the past, yeah? We've got the future ahead of us, don't we?"

...How easy, Guzma suddenly thought, it would be to say that, if one's past was a clean thing, free of blemish-a pristine, pure glass to set on a shelf and leave unprotected.

"So, getting hitched, huh?" Kukui, it seemed, wanted to veer the conversation back to its original cause. "You excited, or what!?"

"...Sure," Guzma obliged, not bothering to drum up fake enthusiasm (Kukui usually had enough for the two of them, anyway).

"I wouldn't have pegged her for your type, but― hey, what do I know? Anyway, your folks have gotta be pumped."

Guzma slumped and shrugged, loathing that Kukui had brought it up. "Uh, yeah, probably."

"Wait..." Kukui scratched his head. "I know you haven't stopped by Mele'mele yet, but you have _talked_ to them, right?"

"Everything's, everything's kind of been a rush, so…"

"Really!? But, they're gonna be at the wedding, right?"

Guzma turned his body for the sea. "We're not-really making this a family thing."

"What!" Kukui hollered in saddened surprise. "You're getting _married_! It's so a family thing!"

Guzma briefly marveled that he had actually managed to get Kukui genuinely _upset_ ―had he ever accomplished that before?

"Sorry," Kuki said, sensing he shouldn't be so quick to criticize, "I mean, to each their own, I guess, but man! That's crazy to me!" He waited only a moment before following up with an apology. "Sorry we can't come."

Guzma shrugged. "It's not like I came to yours."

"Ha! Yeah, that's true." Kukui took a drink, then added, "You know, I tried to invite you. But I couldn't figure out where to send it…? You didn't have an address at the time, I don't think."

"I wouldn't have come."

"I _knew_ that," Kukui said. "But still. I wasn't about to give up on you, yeah?"

He saw the earnestness in Kukui's face and couldn't take it anymore. He glowered bitterly. "So, when _did_ you give up on me?"

Kukui knocked him in the shoulder with his fist, slightly harder than before. When Guzma's expression flashed with anger, he laughed in his face fearlessly. "What a dumb question! C'mon!"

It had been too long. He had forgotten Kukui's language-his wildly physical means of exacting retaliation and praise. Guzma tried to accept the encouragement at face value, though he couldn't completely contain his grimace.

"Well, it's been a crazy couple of years, huh? At least everything worked out."

Guzma stared out at the ocean, which shone a blissful, jasmine blue. "Yeah…"

* * *

Lusamine would not talk to him for the rest of the day, a reprisal for his stunt at breakfast. Guzma never found out for sure if her swooning was genuine or a clumsy cry for attention, but he knew, if nothing else, that mentioning Lillie had put her on edge.

She could not avoid him forever, however, and thus she appeared in the evening at the door of his suite, donned in her dinner gown, her face lacking only her last layer of lipstick.

"Darling," she said, playing it cool and striding inside without asking, "have you even started to get ready?"

As he was clearly still in his sweats and bathrobe, he figured this was rhetorical.

"I wish you wouldn't wait until the last minute for these things."

"...I'll be ready."

She frowned and threw her hands to her hips, jangling with jewelry. "Unfortunately, I can't seem to count on that anymore." Lusamine must have expected him to start arguing right away, because his quiet unnerved her enough to make her say, "Are you feeling alright?"

Guzma shrugged.

"You like you're thinking about something, and we both know where that tends to lead you."

"I'm thinking…" He morosely eyed the window, choosing to ignore her jab. "About this morning."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't." She started for his bedroom. "Did I pick out the suit I wanted for you tonight? I can't remember―"

But Guzma didn't answer, instead fidgeting with his robe pockets, then asking meekly, "Do I make you happy?"

Lusamine stopped in her tracks and turned, immediately furious. "How can you ask me that after today?"

"Why won't you just answer?" he shot back.

" _Guzma_."

"It's just, _they_ …" He crumpled his face with contemplation. "They seemed happy."

Now that she sensed his unease, she realized she had answered incorrectly, and tried to reassure him with a placated sigh. "Not all couples are alike, Guzma. They work on different principles. To compare them..."

"What about Mohn? Did he make you happy?"

She blinked at him, brought out a handheld mirror from her purse, and began applying her lipstick. "There's going to be an ambassador from Hoenn tonight―"

Guzma, overcome with frustration, dared to interrupt her. "Why do you _do_ that? You always do that! Why won't you ever talk about him with me?"

"What does it matter?"

" _He was your husband_! Did you love him? Did you even care about him?"

That, at last, drove her to snarl at him. "You want to know about him? Very well! Think of him as your opposite! A brilliant mind, a man of dignity and kindness! He had charisma, and charm, and I loved him more than I have ever loved anything! _There_ , you see? Now, I would _very_ happy if you never said his name again!"

Guzma felt like every molecule of air had been forcefully torn from his lungs. As if, for one horrible moment, he saw something in her he didn't recognize at all, and couldn't decide whether to pity, despise, or fear it; a veil peeked through, a mask that just slipped slightly.

But more than anything, he felt the strangest sensation of grief-a grief unknown, unexperienced, unburied.

He stood there petrified, suffocated by a weight in his chest.

"Why are you standing there like that?"

No answer.

"Whatever's the matter with you? Are you drunk?"

No answer.

"You―!" She huffed, flustered by his lack of response, and fastened her lipstick shut. "I've had about enough of your antics today."

Still, no answer. He trembled slightly.

"You've become utterly intolerable lately, and this morning was just another show of it! I suppose you found that little prank amusing: humiliating me in front of company like that." She snapped her hand-mirror shut. "It took everything in me not to tell them they're fraternizing with an unrepentant thief."

Guzma couldn't contain himself any longer. "...You know she still cares about you?"

Lusamine turned to him slowly, knowledge dawning on her face.

"She still―! Wants to come home even, and I don't see what the big deal would be―"

"I _knew_ it!" Lusamine screamed, blistering with rage. "After everything―! You've gone and talked to that nasty creature as well!" Her arms shook, and she pressed her fists together until they turned bone-white. A cruel sneer twisted her mouth. "How did you like her? Better than Gladion, I imagine." She mockingly cooed, "Did she charm you with her pretty little face? Bat her eyelashes at you? I would have thought she was too young for you, but maybe you like it that way-maybe you like girls young, nascent, _budding_ -"

He cringed, revolted at her vile accusation. "No; god, what is wrong with you!?" He threw aside the attack and tried to reason with her. "I don't even see what you have against her!"

"Are you so thick-headed? Don't you see? Those two―! You see the influence they've had on you? I confess that you were once beautiful to me, when you kept your mouth shut and did as you were told, but now―! Insolent! Disobedient! Disrespectful! Their ugliness has corrupted you from afar! That is precisely how insidious and malignant they are!" For a second, she reeled in her anger, gripping her face and twisting her fingers into her locks of hair, thralled by inescapable grief. "Ruining me… They infect everything, ruin me, no matter what I do―!"

"Are you nuts?" Guzma spat, interrupting her self-pity. "Like, are you really that mental? They're not supervillains or something! They're just little kids!"

Lusamine dropped her hands and growled. "What has made you feel the need to open your mouth and give me your thoughts on matters you know nothing about?"

"I know―! I know plenty, and, you know what! It doesn't matter! This isn't even about them! Listen! You oughtta just get used to how I am now! 'Cause…! When we're married, I'm gonna be your husband, and―! Things are gonna change around here! You're gonna hafta start listening to me!"

Her eyes hardened and her voice dipped into a chill. "I beg your pardon?"

"B-because!" He puffed up a little. "I'll be the man o' the house, won't I! So you won't! Be able to boss me around anymore, and you're gonna start doing what I say!"

For what felt like a very long time, Lusamine stood there, eyes piercing his, hands folded before her. The lamplight cast hard shadows over her body and face, making her form angular and sharp; the darkness behind her seemed to absorb in all stray light and destroy it, folding silence into the room. When she spoke, she was quiet, almost taken in by the shadows. "Oh, dear. Are you… joking, or are you really that dim?" Her hand reached her forehead and pressed on it. "Darling, I'm afraid you're not understanding this at all."

He felt his surge of triumph dwindle between her tapping, finely-manicured fingers.

"Perhaps it's because you're so young… So simple and childlike in your thinking. But I've been married before, and so I can assure you, marriage does not change a person, certainly not the way you're imagining. In the most fundamental ways… Nothing is going to change between us. I will still have to run things, and you will remain inept and unlikeable―"

He took only a moment to hear and begin to process the comment; his shoulders stiffened.

She saw the hurt in his face and continued. "Well, honestly, dear! What do you want me to say? You're either a shrill little child, tugging on people's skirts and begging for attention, or a monstrous, rampaging animal. Neither part of your personality is particularly endearing."

"That's―That's not-" He found himself stumbling for her, trying to think of a way to answer her.

"And it's not to say you have _no_ good qualities, Guzma. It's only that the lack the ones conventional people look for. But I'm a charitable woman: I've looked past your flaws-one could say, _heroically endured them_ , at times-and I've worked with your strengths, undeveloped as they were―"

His fists bound together and trembled.

She saw and misread his facial expression. "There's no need to be so glum. As my husband, you'll experience certain benefits, to be sure. For instance, you'll be perfectly free to do whatever…" She made a dismissive, circular motion with her wrist. "...Fumbling around you think passes for making love. If we're to have children, it's a _sine qua non_."

He flew forward, all the blood drumming into his skull like the rhythm of war. He was almost upon her when he yelled as hard as he could, "If all you wanted was for me to knock you up, you shoulda asked! You shoulda just _asked,_ I woulda done it when we first met; I woulda nailed you―!"

Her face turned an unrecognizable color, and she screamed in a rage. "How dare you!" _Slap_. "How _dare_ you!" Slap again.

His vision whirled and narrowed as the sharp, unexpectedly severe pain bloomed through his jaw. As he brought up his hands to meagerly defend himself, he lost his balance, and she took advantage of it by shoving him into the wall.

He fell back… Lost track of where he was, momentarily, just long enough for her to slug him again, this time at the bridge of his nose. There was a popping sound―he felt the flood of thick moisture backing up in his sinuses, choking him―

She hadn't stopped screaming. "Disgusting! Small-minded!"

The pain finally powered through his initial instinct against forcefully wrestling a woman; he wrenched her arms upward, but she already had him pinned to the wall. Blearily, he cried out, "Get offa me! Get off, you crazy―"

With a strength he didn't know she had, she twisted out of his grip on her arms and buried her hands into his chest, like she meant to tear his heart out.

She howled in his face. "You presume to tell me what _I_ want? Think about what _you're_ getting! The keys to my kingdom! Riches beyond anything your walnut-sized brain could comprehend! A wife most men would kill for! Status! Power! Respect!" She raked her nails against his chest; he cringed and desperately tried to pry them off. "What were you, when I found you? An ugly, sad little creature! But I took pity on you, and I made you beautiful, didn't I?"

"Augh, god!" He clenched his teeth, shut his eyes tight, and tried to ride out the pain of feeling his flesh split open.

Finally, when his pained writhing satisfied her, she let go. He crumpled to his knees. He thought he would be allowed to crawl away and lick his wounds, but she huffed and gave one more blow, this time with the sharp toe of her high-heel shoe, right to his gut. He yelped, then wordlessly whimpered and collapsed onto his hands.

Once Guzma retreated―cowered, really―against the wall, Lusamine seemed to swell with new resentment. She growled at him.

"All the time, money, and effort I've poured into you― do I not deserve some credit? Some appreciation!? I do all this for you, and you reward my efforts by whining and snivelling like a spoiled child!"

He squeezed his eyes shut to fight the swimming colors in his vision.

"I thought I could make something of you! Extract your potential; mold you! But now, at every turn, you've taken to sabotaging my efforts! Would you rather go back to what you were before? An unwashed thug with no future?!"

Some of the words got through, but as for others, he crushed his hands over his ears, stooped his head low against the floor, trying to block out all possible noise. All the things he wanted to scream―all the words bound up in his stomach, choking him.

For that stretch of time, he shook prostrate on the floor and heaved for air, and she stood over him, drinking in this picture of him, as if it nourished her. She crossed her arms.

"You are nothing without me," she told him. " _Nothing_."

* * *

For the next few minutes, she stood in front of the mirror to re-apply her lipstick, clean her nails, and fix her hair, humming a ditty as she did.

Guzma didn't watch, but only listened to her, the notes floating in the dark like stars in his blurred vision. He sat up and looked over his expansive suite, desperate for anything to catch his attention and distract him from the agony that threatened to burst from his chest. His jaw and eyes burned with humiliation and shock. The tangy smell and taste of blood flowed into his mouth, swirling red and hot on his tongue, and now the room, too, swirled, and was red, and he wondered if he was dying.

Lusamine broke the silence. "Guzma, come here."

He staggered to his feet, feeling very unsteady. But he managed to reach the mirror. He tried not to look, but he caught his reflection in the mirror: it sported a bloody nose, a bruise growing outward at his lower cheek and eye, and a miserable expression like that of a whipped dog.

"Get cleaned up and dressed. Dinner is in an hour." She clicked her tongue and grabbed him by the chin, examining his reflection. "Get some foundation on that. And if anyone asks, it was a…"

She left a space of silence, which she meant for him to fill. He dutifully mumbled, "Training accident."

She flashed a pleased smile. "Good boy. Now, remember: smile! The happiest day of your life is coming soon. So _show_ it."

* * *

 _Get yourself together_. It was the fourth time he had muttered this to himself, and this time, it had an accusatory, hateful edge to it. _Get! Yourself! Together!_

He had already spent too much time bent over the sink, reeling and trying not to vomit. The first wave of nausea hit him minutes after she went downstairs, and it left him virtually crippled, unable to walk or think clearly. Through the fog of his mental state, however, one word drifted to the surface, fuzzy but recognizable. _Drink._ He needed a drink.

Guzma had to claw at furniture to keep his balance on the way to the cabinet, and his hands shook when he reached for the bottle and highball glass. But the liquor poured easily, swirling into the bottom of the glass, and washed down his throat even easier. He threw back the first shot, forcing it down―poured another, gulped on it, sucked it down in a few greedy tilts―coughed and sighed from the strength of it, but savored the sour burn and the numbness it spread to his fingers and face. His eyes watered and his nose ran, and he made excuses for himself as he dumped out another serving. "I gotta― I just gotta get my head on straight, it's fine, it's―" He slammed back yet another. He cleared his throat, inhaled sharply a few times, pinched his brow―anything he could think of to break up the knot of pain forming in his head.

Throwing his hands about the surface of the kitchen counter, he found his pills. Surely they would send him off― Push his head into happy, fluffy clouds― He tried to open the bottle, but his hands shook, and upon wresting the cap off, the contents of the bottle flew, scattering about the floor, clacking like teeth on the tile. He swore and stooped down in an attempt to grope for the tiny, white bits of happiness―

Then, off in his bedroom, he heard a rattle, a zap, and a thump.

He knew the sound immediately and stormed for the room, grabbing his whiskey bottle as he did, barely managing to stay upward as he shouted hoarsely, "Goli! No!"

Just as he suspected, Golisopod had absconded again, but this time, it squatted Buddha-like before the broad window that filtered in the moonlight. It sat and did not move―as if frozen. Even when he entered the room, it didn't greet him with its usual cry or shuffle.

Guzma, unnerved at first, quickly flew into a rage. "What is _wrong_ with you?" he screamed, hurtling threats and curses in its direction.

Golisopod didn't move or respond. It sat very still in the dark, only its eyes following him carefully.

"I've told you a hundred, _million_ times, you can't pop out whenever you want anymore! Why don't you ever _listen_ to me?!"

As he yelled, and as he came to realize that Golisopod felt no remorse for its disobedience, he lost his last bit of patience.

"You stupid _bug!_ " He roared and chucked the partially-emptied whiskey bottle at its head, which struck it in its skull with cruel precision. The bottle tumbled to the floor; Golisopod winced, but wasn't profoundly hurt. "Go back in your ball and stay there!"

Guzma stumbled back around. He collided with the closet, opened it, and started to tear clothes from their hangers. He couldn't remember which suit she had decided on, so he just grabbed whatever yielded to his fingers and threw it onto the bed.

Golisopod still hadn't moved, so he started ranting again. "I don't even have time to deal with you right now! I'm running late! I'm running―"

He felt a wave of dizziness. He wasn't sure it was the alcohol hitting him, or something else entirely, but he lost his balance and had to stumble over to the bed, shoving the clothes onto the floor.

He steadied himself, sat on the edge of the bed, put his head into his hands, and wept.

He thought it might be endless; he felt there was no bottom to it, this outpouring and torrent of grief. He sobbed uncontrollably at first, pinned his head with his arms, trying to contain the wracking that shook his shoulders. It hurt to breathe―his head and chest still felt like they might explode any second―he cried, and gasped for air, and cried some more, and just when his vision closed in and he thought he might pass out, it stopped.

* * *

Mostly stopped, anyway. For a time period that stretched out much longer than his hysteria, he pulled himself achily upright and continued snivelling, shaking in the aftershock, and blinking back tears.

"Ugh, god." He was sure he was a horrible mess by now, smeared with tears, mucus, and blood. He tried to clear his vision by brushing his hands over his swollen eyes. "S-stupid." He could hardly hold his head up, he was so exhausted; he collapsed forward, pressing his face into his hands at his lap. "I'm s-such an idiot, such a―"

Something put hard pressure on his arm. He jumped, having forgotten that Golisopod was there.

"Ahh! God!"

Golisopod nudged him again, sternly.

"You scared the―" He didn't bother to finish scolding it, only throwing himself over it and blubbering all over again. It took a minute to regain his senses and slide back down, weakly trying to make amends. "You ain't hurt?" Golisopod shoved its head into him; he touched its forehead and smoothed his palm over its shining shell. He smirked through his tears. "Nah, you're good. Us boneheads know how to take a beating, huh?" He planted his forehead onto Golisopod's and rested it there for a moment. The pain that had throbbed in his head minutes ago had mostly subsided. Miserably, he wrapped his arms around its neck. "I'm sorry… You shouldn't hafta be stuck with me."

Golisopod wickered sadly and nibbled on the edge of his robe.

Then, like a weight had been lifted, he felt himself separate from everything else. His room became a self-contained universe, dark and closed off from outside forces; he felt no sense of time, or responsibility, or even remorse. Suddenly, the things he would have sworn were life-and-death minutes ago all ebbed away, leaving him with a strange peace. So he sat. Felt the sensation of floating, suspended in a void.

He watched the darkening form of Mele'Mele sitting on the sea, blinking its lights, and sinking into shadow. Then, suddenly, he felt the tight, gravitational pull of it.

"It'll be okay."

Guzma, still suspended, still spinning, tried to get up. He held onto Golisopod to steady himself.

Again, with more certainty, he sputtered it, eyes on Mele'Mele. "It'll be okay."

Why does it never work when he says it? No matter the times he chants it aloud, screams it, the phrase remains limp and powerless. It used to be a salve, an anesthetic in the face of the unspeakable...

Pain blooms in the shadows, so that he can't see it―but he feels it like a living thing, its hot iron, its sting, its wetness, its remembering. He crawls on the floor and he finds it under the bed, stuck in his flesh like an ingrown thorn.

"It'll be―"

* * *

There was a bruise on Guzma's wrist. That's what caught Uncle Daturo's attention that bright and humid afternoon, when he spotted the boy walking home from school. Kukui, who usually walked with Guzma, had stayed after for soccer practice, so Guzma was alone for once, walking the dusty room back home.

Uncle Daturo―well, really, Officer Daturo. All the kids on Mele'mele called him Uncle. He was nice. Always nice. Bought him things. Gave him rides in his cruiser. Made dad back off. And he listened. He really listened.

"Your dad hitting you again?"

Guzma wouldn't answer.

Daturo reached over from the driver's seat of the police cruiser and put a hand on his knee.

"Goose, you can tell me anything."

"...I know."

"What are you so afraid of?"

Guzma shrugged.

"Aren't we friends?"

The hand was still on his knee. He stared at it while its palm moistened with sweat, and agreed, "Yeah."

"Look-I'll talk to him for you. It'll be okay."

Magic words, casting their spell: Yes, Guzma realizes, everything, everything will be okay.

 _For a while, Guzma thinks, there's so much to feel that he doesn't want to feel. So he focuses on sensations outside of himself and his struggling to breathe in the suffocating heat―outside of the hand that started on his knee and the clacking of the menthol drop against Daturo's teeth―and instead on the songs of birds outside, on the warmth of the sunlight through the windshield, on the smell of strawberry in his ice cream. In the path of light, he can see particles of dust flying through the air, as busy as hungry insects._

 _So, for those minutes: light, and warmth, and song, and strawberry._

...

Guzma's thin legs, which had not yet hit the growth spurt that would arrive in the sixth grade, dangled over the passenger's seat. His feet were bare now―he had shed his sandals to the floor of the cruiser, after kicking his feet together too much and squirming his toes against his ankles.

The ice cream cone had started to melt and drip all over his hands. He tried, meekly, to put it to his tongue, but the flavor had changed. It tasted like… ashes. Like nothing.

He shut his eyes and tried to imagine disappearing, not ever having existed―he thinks about floating away, away from here, into the atmosphere, into the dead of space.

"Goose." Daturo glanced over at him, then reached out to comb his fingers through Guzma's hair, which had gone slick and tangled with sweat. "Finish your ice cream, huh? You're getting it everywhere."


	18. Bad Hand

**Chapter 18: Bad Hand**

"Well," Officer Hitchens drawled, a cruel smile splitting his face, "look what the cat dragged in."

All the cops' eyes turned to Kahuna Nanu.

The police officers stationed on the various islands of Alola didn't mingle much―that is, Mele'mele's cops didn't fraternize with Ula'ula's, and so on. But there remained a tradition, going as far back as Nanu could remember, of a bi-weekly poker game in the back offices of the Mele'mele station, which Nanu would, on occasion, attend. The group was normally small, maybe six or seven at most, and tonight appeared to be no exception. The room swirled thickly with cigarette smoke, and Hitchens headed the table, flanked by five officers in open-shirt uniform, each lounging with cards before them and cans of beer piling at their sides.

"Or should I say _cats_."

Nanu wiped his sandals on the floor. "You always were a terrible comedian, Hitch."

"Sweet Almighty, Nanu. It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

Nanu briefly glanced over the group. He knew them all pretty well, if not _too_ well. Two of them were retired cops, like him―grizzled, both divorced by now and looking worse for it. The other three were resident cops, still active. And there was the head officer of the Mele'mele station, Hitchens, who had been around as long as Nanu, but still clung to his position like it was the only thing keeping his black heart beating. If there was anything in the world you wanted to know about the residents of Mele'mele, Hitchens could to tell you about it―in lurid detail.

Nanu hated their guts; they were all slimeballs. But like they say―birds of a feather. Besides, being a cop got you used to hanging with slimeballs. You learned to work with them, and get what you wanted from them.

He breathed in through the smoke, stepped toward the table, and smirked at their array of red-eyed faces. "I woulda thought you boys were busy with that missing persons."

"Is that what you're here for?" Hitchens shook his head in mock disgust. "And here we thought you missed us."

Nanu pulled out a chair for himself. "Only place I've ever hoped to see your ugly mugs is the obituaries."

"Funny you say that," Hitchens chortled. "We've got a dead pool goin' on you. Wally's already out―thought for sure you were gonna kick it last year."

"Yeah?" Nanu whistled in sympathy. "Sucks to be you, Wally."

Wally flipped him the bird.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Just in time. This round's about done." Hitchens waved to the dealer and said to the cop next to him, "Get him a beer."

The card table shook on uneasy legs, but even with the force of another can of open beer being slammed down and Nanu crunching up against it as he settled in his seat, it remained upright and the game rested undisturbed. As the dealer puffed on a cigarette and began pulling the final card for the going round, Nanu gave Hitchens proper respect by addressing him first with small talk. "So. How's the wife?"

"Still a shrew," Hitchens said. He went ahead and raised-like he always did. "How're your kids?"

Whenever he talked to other cops, that's what Team Skull was inevitably called. 'His kids.' It wasn't like he had any biological ones, so there was no room for confusion. He answered coolly, "Still brats. Kinda boring without the boy, though."

The round ended, and Wally collected his winnings; they didn't talk much, but went ahead and started a new round, dealing fresh hands.

As Ernesto, one of the other retired cops, contemplated his first bet, he suddenly whistled. "Still hard to believe even two years later, huh? A whole town, out just like that."

Hitchens grunted unhappily and scratched his stubbled chin. "That Guzma kid oughtta count himself lucky he didn't try that crap here―I woulda dragged him out in the street and broke his head open. Ula'ula cops sure are a buncha pussies." Hitchens looked at Nanu, measuring him up. "Not you, though. You were the only one I liked."

Nanu, not flattered, checked his cards with his thumb. They weren't promising. "Didn't come to get my dick sucked, Hitch."

A few choice snorts rose up out of them.

They made their bets, tossing in their coins and bills. When it came Nanu's turn, he shrugged, called, and tried to fish for what he wanted, casting his red eyes over his the table. "You find the kid yet?"

Feet shuffled under the table, and Hitchens growled. "You wanna talk shop at poker night? Cripes, Nanu. Kill me 'fore I end up like you―retired and still sniffing around. Why don't you get a hobby?"

"My hobby is watching you bumble around like idiots."

"Kid isn't even missing," Wally interrupted. Though Hitchens shot him a glare, he continued, "He's at his folks' place. He got there a little while ago."

"I _see_." Nanu studied their indifferent expressions. "Well. That sure ain't on the news cycle. You gonna call it in?"

"Why?" Hitchens said. "He'll be gone by morning―that's how it goes with that freak show―then it'll be somebody else's headache."

"The depth to your laziness," Nanu intoned, "is truly astounding."

He sipped on his beer and waited for any response, but unsurprisingly, none of the cops were particularly hurt by this accusation. Hitchens hadn't stopped giving him a suspicious look, though, and asked between the next round of bets, "So. When'd you get here?"

"Hmm? Oh. Been at Hala's all day. Big meeting. I'm stayin' at the motel up the road."

"What?" Ernesto eyeballed him like he just said something scandalous. "You got some woman we don't know about?"

"...Pretty keen on dying alone, thanks. Saves me the alimony."

Hitchens gave him a slippery, dark grin. "I always figured you were drowning in it. All those teenage runaways―pro'lly come runnin' to you with their daddy issues―"

This brought a nasty curl to Nanu's lip. Before he had to say something brutal and threatening, though, Wally cut in to save him. "Why bother with that when he works with Kahuna Olivia?"

A few whistles and affirmative grumbles greeted this comment, and Nanu shook his head disapprovingly. "For the record: you're all disgusting."

"Like you're some paragon of virtue."

"That's fair," he acknowledged, "but I stand by it." He rather eagerly changed the topic. "Lemme know if you make a move on the house. I'll tag along."

Hitchens was surprised by the offer. "You sure about that? The family's looney-tunes."

"Yeah, but I know the kid."

"That's right," Hitchens said, "I guess you would. You know the parents at all?"

"I've run into Witt once or twice."

"With your cruiser?"

Nanu, not at all shocked by Hitchens' blatant disdain, relented, "Unfortunately, no."

Hitchens croaked a laugh and snuffed in a drag from his cigarette. After puffing out the smoke in small, sputtering clouds, he at last shrugged indifferently. "Hey. You wanna come slum with us, that's fine by me. Just don't be disappointed when he ain't there tomorrow."

* * *

Throughout the rest of the game, between the tapping of feet, scratching of shoulders, wheezing, and beer-sipping, Nanu continued his dance of talking and prodding, talking and prodding. With enough alcohol in them, and with few other topics of conversation available, they offered their insight into the sudden stir of activity at Aether Paradise. At some point in the last few hours, a shuttle boat had broken away from its harbor, containing a single passenger; it then stopped to drift in the middle of the waters dividing the islands, and by the time Aether sent out another shuttle to collect it back, the boat was bobbing, unmanned and empty.

So when Aether staff realized they could not locate their kahuna, the whole matter became a frenzy not only for the Foundation, but also for the police.

Hitchens was not impressed by all the fuss. "Lord. They're acting like we're about to bring out hounds and helicopters."

Finally, the poker game ended, winnings were split appropriately, and the men began to pack away their belongings, some pulling on jackets for the cool midnight air, some carrying their beers out the door with them. They chatted on the way out, and the two retired cops tried to invite him to hit up the local bar, but he declined. The front door shut, the graveyard shift started with a pair of younger cops sitting at the front desks, and Hitchens retreated to the back office for reasons unknown.

Nanu, at this point, could have left the station and had what he needed.

But for the kahuna, as he lingered at the front of the station, contemplating his next move, loose thoughts drifted back into the forefront of his mind. The thoughts proved coarse, unfriendly, and bitter to taste, but he had only ever delayed them, not disputed them.

So finally, he decided that tonight would have to be it.

Finishing the last of his drink and chucking its container into the trash, he started for the back office. The door had been left open, revealing the tiny room packed with ancient file cabinets, loose papers, and styrofoam cups. He could see only the vague shape of Hitchens' back as he was bent behind the desk, digging through a lower drawer.

"Hitch."

Hitchens sat up startled at being pursued into his office. "Huh?" He looked at him, clearly not expecting him to still be here. "Nanu. You need something?"

"Question for you."

"Yeah?"

"This missing persons. It's gotta drum up some old memories for you."

"That ain't a question. But sure." He rubbed his head. "Can't tell you how many calls we used to get out to that kid's house. At least we used to be able to kick them over to Daturo. You remember him?"

"Vaguely. Guess I've heard things." Nanu lifted his eyes a second. "Come to think of it, that name…" With a quiet hum of thought, he tilted his head. "When Po Town fell… I read the report on the kid's last night home."

"Ah, yeah, sure. Daturo was the first one on-scene. He had some kinda in with the kid; hung out at the house quite a bit up to then."

"Whatever happened to him?"

"You don't know?" (Truth be told, Nanu didn't track the comings and goings of the police force staff much anymore.) "He transferred out a few years back."

"Transferred, huh." Nanu knew the word enough to take it as a euphemism. "That for any reason in particular? Didn't think you'd wanna boot a 'pillar of the community.'"

"Huh? 'Pillar'! Shoot, Hala tell you that?" Hitchen belted out a vindictive laugh, then complained hoarsely, "He was a frickin' layabout. Never at his post. Didn't do his paperwork. All he ever did was wander around the island, play ball with neighborhood kids, and flirt with housewives." For a second, Hitchens looked Nanu over. "All right, you old dog. What is it? We both know you want something, and it ain't two-bit gossip."

"Me?" Nanu shrugged innocently. "Just curious."

"About what?"

"What else? You said the kid's home. What do you make of that?"

Hitchens mused, sighed through his nostrils, and started to tap a pen against his hand.

"He ran, Hitch. Ran and didn't come back. Kids don't do that for no reason."

"You're half-right," Hitchens said. "But it ain't as earth-shattering as all that. He's been home before."

Nanu scrunched up his eyes. "...Really."

Hitchens grinned at the realization that he knew something Nanu didn't; his voice got smarmy with this secret knowledge. "No joke. Not a lot, mind you. But it's happened three… Maybe four times. Mostly in the first few years-when he was still adjusting, I guess. Same thing every time. Shows up out of the blue; moves in for a day, maybe two at the most; Witt and him start screaming at each other, and he's out the door again."

"Anything physical go down?"

"Nah, I don't think so. Just howlin' like two tom cats." By Hitchens' exasperated sigh, he looked like he was developing a headache just thinking about it. "Maybe their last fight knocked it outta their system."

"Hmm. Quite the night, wasn't it?"

Hitchens started plucking papers together to shove into the open drawer near his feet, and didn't respond. Nanu kept going.

"Report I read on it was a bit odd, though. Had holes… You know, it said Daturo called it in, but he wasn't found at the scene? Nobody could find him for almost two hours―"

The drawer slammed shut, and Hitchens huffed. "You getting at something?"

"You know what I really hate about Alola?" Nanu searched his expression pointedly, suddenly making the other officer uncomfortable. "Don't get me wrong. It's home, and all. People are pretty decent here. But on these islands… People seem to think being naive is a virtue."

"Who's being naive?"

Nanu blinked slowly at him. He could tension wrinkling Hitchens' face, but he kept his speech eerily steady. "No point in trying to sweep it under the rug. I've done my homework."

Hitchens growled, showing an abrupt moment of irritation, "Should just come out say it, Nanu. I don't care if you are a kahuna; I ain't gonna tap-dance to your cryptic B.S."

"I play my cards close to my chest," Nanu said, shrugging. "You should know that by now, Hitch."

It would be easy, Nanu thought as he watched Hitchens stiffen in his seat, to ascribe this man with more devious intentions than he really deserved. The Mele'mele head officer chronically avoided certain things-his life motto was: _ain't my business_. Not to suggest that he lauded any given behavior, or ignored it, or even found it tolerable. Indeed, he tracked the sins of every person in his vicinity with obsessive dedication. (Simultaneously, paradoxically, his other motto was: _you didn't hear this from me_ ). No, he was another man steamrolled by the Way Things Were; whatever scruples had once lived in him had since been packed away to make room for survival. He kept his head down. Nanu could judge him for that strain of cowardice. But he'd be a hypocrite for it.

With time, and pressure, and a steady gaze pursuing him, Hitchens kicked back in his chair, drummed his fingers on his desk, and began laying down his first line of defense.

"I'm just repeating what I've heard. So don't shoot the messenger."

Nanu snorted and stuffed his hands in his pockets, signalling his laying-down of arms. "Hitch, the day I shoot you, I promise it'll be for a proper reason."

* * *

Earlier that night, Guzma's mother screamed when she opened the front door.

It had taken much longer than Guzma anticipated to reach shore; he hadn't planned ahead, exactly, beyond the two-step process inspired by an errant, desperate thought. Sitting in his room, staring at Mele'mele, all he could think was: _I have to go_. And then, _I'll have to take a boat. I'll have to…_

Not much more thought went into it. The escape didn't even feel real, or climatic, or particularly meaningful. No. It felt like a long walk-a long, long walk at sea. He figured leaving the boat might lend _some_ mystery as to his destination, though he hadn't guessed how quickly they would notice his disappearance and put everyone on alert. By the time he reached Mele'mele, after an almost thirty-minute swim gripping Golisopod's back, a patrol car parked at the edge of Hao'oli city was ready to spot him.

He didn't notice. Wouldn't have stopped, even if he did. The gravitational pull proved too strong for him. He trudged through the city, hood up, dark glasses on, and face pointing down, and by the dark of the evening, found himself on the dusty path up the hill towards home.

The house looked the same, he thought, though in the dark, some details were not clear. The shape of its plain white facade seemed… Sagged, almost worn down beneath the weight of memory. The yellow swing still swayed gently in the breeze crossing the yard, looking solitary and ghostly; the windows glowed with harsh light, like eyes gaping, and when he stood on the front step, it was as if time itself rolled back, casting old memorized shadows on the blue grass. Shadows of running. Shadows of hiding, pretending, and wishing.

It took him forever to get the courage to knock, and he pulled his hastily-packed duffel back more firmly over his shoulder as he waited for an answer. So first he heard the shuffling of feet, then the unlatching of the lock, and finally, the screaming.

Cringing at the noise, he nonetheless stole a few seconds to examine his mother, though against the shadows he could see her imperfectly. Some features remained plainly recognizable: prematurely gray-haired from stress, chestnut skin, soft and plump-bodied, voice constantly on edge. She was native Alolan and shorter than both himself and his father by several inches, and for all his life, he only ever remembered her cleaning up after him and deferring to them both. Though he hadn't seen her in years, she didn't appear to have changed much, especially by her outburst of hysterics.

"Mom! Geez, you tryin' to wake up the whole island?" Guzma ducked in through the door, seized her by the arm, and shoved her inside along with him, hissing for her to quiet down.

"G-Guzma! Oh my god! What―! Is it really you, is it―"

After pushing her into the kitchen, he flew back around the shut the door and breathe a sigh. "Yes, obviously, okay, it's me―! Look, is Dad―"

But before he could manage to start questioning her, she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms about him in a tight, non-negotiable embrace. Her face pressed into his chest, muffling her passionate gushings, and her arms had caught his against his sides, so that he could only lift his forearms to meekly pat her on the back. "I can't believe it…! Oh, oh, my baby boy's home…!"

He frowned, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and mumbled, "Aw, Mom, c'mon…"

He expected this to carry on a little while longer, so he was caught by surprise when she let go and gave him an aghast look. "Guzma! You're soaking wet!" She wasn't wrong; Golisopod was not particularly buoyant.

"Uh, yeah, I know. Mom―"

"You're dripping all over the floor."

He snorted hotly. "Mom! Would you listen!? Is Dad home?"

She put her hands to her hips, and suddenly looked uneasy. "N… no, not yet. What's going on?"

Privately, Guzma thanked the stars. He no longer had reason to fear the man, but he didn't feel mentally up to seeing him at the moment.

"I've― I've heard all kinds of things!" She began fretting. "And then I had to find out you're getting married! You couldn't tell your own parents? Couldn't send us a letter or a phone call or―"

He decided to cut her off. "I'm staying for a few days."

"O-oh! You―" She put a hand to her mouth. "Well, of course you can, if you want, but…"

"I'm gonna change," he added bluntly, bumping past her without excusing himself.

"Do you.. Do you need me to…"

He didn't turn around, only briefly noting the state of the house: everything carefully arranged, doted upon, and in its proper place. If nothing else, his mother knew how to maintain outward appearances. He grimaced bitterly and couldn't contain a sour note when he said, "I think I remember where my room is, thanks."

* * *

Behind the slammed door, he dropped his bag unceremoniously on the floor, then glanced about in wonder at his room.

His bedroom was untouched, a time capsule that had captured a moment in time long gone. The same bed, covered in the same worn sheets; the same stereo collecting dust; the same desk, dresser, and end table. Even the chair at the desk seemed to be at the exact same angle he left it in years ago. It took a minute or two to reorient himself, to make it feel like he wasn't standing in the middle of a museum exhibit rather than his own personal space.

First, he kicked off his soggy shoes-then peeled off his socks-then had to sit on his bed for a second, until the present dizziness could pass. As a new headache emerged, he removed his dark glasses and set on them on the end table, and began to carefully knead his temples with his fingers. He had to do it carefully, to not push up against the nasty bruise that had swelled up at his left eye; at least the redness at his jaw had mostly subsided, and the bleeding from his nostrils had dried up.

The mattress springs sagged from disuse; he leaned over to reach his long arm for the bag, which he rifled through to find at least one pair of dry trousers. His upper body remained mostly dry, so he only ended up changing out of his jeans and hanging them to dry over his desk chair.

"Guzma?"

He suddenly heard his mother on the other side of the door. Before he could answer, she barged in without so much as knocking. Thankfully, he had finished dressing, but he was just about ready to start cussing her out.

"Guzma, did you need clean towels? I have some here―" She took one look at him in the clear light of his bedroom and cried out in shock. "My goodness, what happened?"

He looked uncomprehendingly at her.

"Your face!"

"Oh." He reached up, poking at the tender bruise at his eye. "Nothing, it… I sort of, fell, and―"

"You sit down; I'll get some ice."

" _Mom,_ don't―"

She disappeared before he could stop her.

"Augh!"

When she materialized again with washcloth in hand, he knew better than to physically resist. All her pent-up mothering made her no more pliable than an iron bar. He snorted, sat on the bed, and petulantly whined as she pushed his face around to get a better look.

"Mom, it's nothing."

But she persisted, eventually pressing the ice to his upper cheek. "What did you say happened?"

"I fell."

Her voice descended into an almost-whisper, shaking slightly. "You should be more careful." After a second of dabbing the bruise, she sighed nostalgically. "It feels like it was just yesterday―you coming home with all sorts of cuts and bruises."

 _I left home with some, too,_ is what he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.

"Go ahead and hold it there."

"Okay, okay. Geez."

Once she released her hand from his face, she gave him a remorseful, longing look; she fidgeted with her hands until she spotted something else she could do. She turned, approached his dresser, and carefully worked her knees down onto the floor. For a second, he didn't know what she was doing, but when he saw her pull open an empty dresser drawer and begin to open his bag, he leaped to his feet.

"Mom, _stop_ ," he said, getting irritated. He reached down and grabbed her by the wrist. "I can unpack my own bag, all right?"

"Are you sure?"

" _Yes._ "

As soon as she stood to her feet, she looked him over again and asked, "Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

He groaned. He had forgotten how annoying her persistent helpfulness could be. "No, I don't. Look, ma, I'm kinda tired? So I'm just gonna go to sleep, okay?"

"Oh… I see."

He waited, then started waving her impatiently toward the door. " _Night_ ," he said.

She finally got the hint and reluctantly slunk out. "Let me know if you need anything," she insisted, before preparing to shut the door behind her. "Good night, dear."

* * *

Finally.

Alone.

Truth be told, he didn't plan on sleeping quite yet. His nerves were shot, and once peace and silence returned to the room, his hands started shaking again. So he got up, still keeping the ice at the tender eye socket, and approached the window to throw it open.

For the first time in a long time, he was able to suck in the night air that drifted out from the berry fields, their blossoms tainting the wind with a sickly-sweet floral scent. The nocturnal insects roared their approval, filling the night with their cacaphonic suites, by their clattering of legs and wings. The grass looked soft and unkempt. He rested his arms on the windowsill, admiring the moonless gloom, and found himself remembering the times he spent out in this yard, chasing Wimpod and Spinarak around, trying to get his mind off whatever chased him. He felt some measure of surprise in realizing that his parents had yet to remove the swingset or adapt his room into storage space-after what, four? Five years now, since his last attempted visit?

He thought-very briefly-about releasing Golisopod, or even the others in his party. But he knew Golisopod would be both too large to fit in his room and too unhappy; it had few happy memories of this place. And the others would busily fill in space, creating noise and clamor and…

He twisted his eyes shut, breathed in the cold air, and retreated from the open window.

Guzma collapsed down onto his bed, smelling the mustiness of unused sheets and pillows. He tried to get comfortable, but he had outgrown his bed, and in order to fit, he had to bend his knees and rest his soles against the footboard. As he lay there, contemplating the blank white ceiling, he fought against invading thoughts.

"It'll just be a few days. I'll get my head on straight―" He frowned and threw his arm against his forehead. "I don't like it, but, what am I supposed to do, huh?"

He decided to stop arguing with himself, but not before another voice crept in, like a sleek, velveteen cat:

 _You're nothing without me_.

His chest started to itch. He distracted himself from it by turning his face toward the end table and reaching for the nearest trophy. He ended up lifting and dusting off the cobwebs from the silver one, from the last tournament he ever entered. With his thumb, he cleared the thin layer of dust from the plaque at its bottom.

'Guzma,' it read. 'Second place.'

 _Gonna put that on my tombstone,_ he thought bitterly, replacing it.

The rest of his room contained scattered evidence of the hobbies most closely aligned to the angry, lonely, sad child: comic books and ancient action figures stuffed under the bed, a stereo piled with CD's of bands he'd now be embarrassed to confess to have liked, a sketchbook in a desk drawer littered with dumb cartoon doodles and graphic designs, an array of pocket knives and box-cutters, trading cards, and his bass guitar, jammed back in his closet behind boxes of junk and left to rot. In his exhaustion and unwillingness to sleep, he ended up getting out of bed, digging the guitar out, falling back onto his bed with it settled on his lap, and plucking its strings boredly. His muscle memory had left a long time ago, so that he could just barely remember a few chords, and of course the strings had slacked and gone horribly out of tune. He didn't attempt to make anything sound appealing, but focused on fiddling his fingers on something to release some nerves. He wondered, absently, if he still had his amp somewhere, but he wasn't about to make the extra effort to find it.

He sighed, thumped a couple more strings of notes together, then apologized to himself for the discordance. "I was never good at it, was I?"

It struck him, as he said it, that he could make the same comment for just about every hobby represented in his room. Each thing had been taken up, tinkered with, then thrown back in the closet or drawer when he found he was not a master in its craft.

 _...Nothing._

Guzma bit the inside of his cheek and snarled to himself. "Whatever." He ditched the guitar against the side of the bed with a clang, pushed off his jacket until he was down to a mostly-dry undershirt, turned off the lights, and fell back into bed. He yanked the covers over himself, folding his legs against his chest to fit himself comfortably, and decided he could sleep forever, and that would be okay with him.

But his mind raced, and rest didn't come easily. After nearly an hour passed and he was only just beginning to fall asleep, he heard the front door of the house open and slam shut. A muffled conversation between his mother and father followed. He couldn't make out any words, but the tone was clear. A rumbling of disagreement, then a few shouts of angers― then thudding footsteps, their bedroom door slamming, and silence again. The house remained quiet the rest of the night, so Guzma tightened his covers and allowed his consciousness to fall away.

* * *

.

… _Goose._

 _._

 _...you've got…_

 _._

 _...blood... your clothes…_

…

 _..._

 _..._

He sees his father's face, twisted like a gargoyle's, all teeth and flesh.

He feels a starburst of pain break out at the back of his head, hears someone screaming at him, accusing him. _What-is-wrong-with-you?_

He faintly recognizes Lusamine, off in the distance, in her nightgown, crouching in a dark corner, soaked and cold.

He sees his bedroom. The shadows on the wall begin to drip and ooze with moisture, gummy and surreal, until the blackness becomes tentacles roping the walls and pawing for his bed, pulling on his legs and pleading with gurgled, drowning sobs.

 _...see it… in you… please…_

He tries to kick it away, but it's immaterial, like a ghost, and soon it's moaning, wailing, pooling the weight of its gelatinous body onto his chest until he can hardly breathe.

 _guzma… please… need you… we see… in you..._

As if his arms are suddenly freed from something, they shoot out, burying his fingers into its soft body. He tears and rips. It squeals in pain, bites his arms and legs, twists its tentacles about his throat. The thorny fangs dig into his neck, but he powers through that, too-until his fingers wrench and split open the soupy flesh, spilling its watery innards out over his chest, all shiny and glistening with human teeth and wet hair, and the further it sinks into him, the more he smells the suffocating stench, and the more he sees: faces and eyes, black and biting as spiders, and...

White hands, clasping over his mouth.

And the voice, drilling into his skull, the Nihilego's roar:

 _GUZMA_

 _GUZMA_

 _GUZMA_

* * *

He jerked awake to the sound and sensation of his fist hitting the wall.

Guzma's heart hammered, all the way into his head and fingertips. He was drenched in sweat. Panting. For a moment, unable to move. Then sensation returned, and he awoke enough to find that he had returned to a long-lived habit. In the pitch black, he ran his finger along the wall, feeling the different notches in the plaster. Some were small. Others, larger. He found what he thought must be the one just created with his fist, a large, cracked depression that still stung his knuckles.

He counted them. They were numberless, an infinite, starry field of rage-filled dreams, lashings-out of grief, the outbursts that came when he ran out of words. He tried, for a while, to remember the exact moments that birthed them, but in his exhaustion, he couldn't.

It was too early to get up. He looked at the clock and found he'd only managed a few hours sleep before waking up in a flop-sweat. Go figure. Can't even sleep right. He felt the swirl of compounded stuff deep in his gut, spilling over, entering his mouth with a bitter taste. He tried to reach for his bag, where his pills were. But it was too far away, and he didn't have the strength or will to get up and retrieve them. So instead, he shivered and flipped himself over, trying to sink past the dizziness and nausea by burying his face in his pillow.

For a long time, his thoughts spiralled outward, then downward, deeper, and deeper into misery. Each thought compounded with another, more self-defeating mantra, until he reached the very bottom of his spirit, and he prayed that he wouldn't have to wake up again... that dreamless sleep would just swallow him forever…

* * *

Despite everything, morning still came.

Upon opening his eyes and seeing his bedroom ceiling, the first thought that floated through his mind was: _I'll be late for school_.

And though it took only a few seconds for him to blink back the lingering sleep and realize that no, that wasn't his problem anymore, in that fleeting bit of time, the room seemed to have expanded in size, fitting him perfectly. By the sunlight coming through the open window, everything was so, eerily familiar. The pattern of light on the wall. The sound of fluttering birds. The faraway clack of buckets being hoisted by the berry farmer next door as he made his morning rounds. Everything felt hushed, like the earth had been draped in cotton. Only when Guzma tried to move his feet did the room shrink back into real-life size, because he immediately had to un-wedge himself from the undersized bed frame. His clunky movements also reawakened his hearing, sensitizing him again to the unpleasant sounds of his own breathing and cracking joints.

"Ugh."

Had he slept? He felt a heavy grogginess, and the blankness of memory that implied he had, but he didn't feel rested at all. At least no headache greeted him yet.

His stomach suddenly growled in protest, and it was then he realized he hadn't eaten since lunch the day before. Faint with hunger, and woozy from discontented sleep, he unwrapped himself from his blankets and slowly crawled out of bed.

He opened the door quietly so that his mother, who stood over the stove in the kitchen, didn't hear him. He scratched his chest-regretted it when his nails hit the sore scabs-and sniffed, overcome with the smell of food. He glanced about to see if his father was up yet, but couldn't see the man anywhere in his field of vision.

His eyes hit the wall for a second. The same pictures on the wall. The same smiling boy looking back at him, pretending…

At last, his mother turned and saw him.

"Oh! You're up!"

She had reason to be shocked; he had never been a morning person. He winced at her excitement and shuffled over, stiffly sliding himself into a chair.

"Do… Do you want some breakfast?" She gripped her serving spoon with both hands, shaking with intent hopefulness.

"That's why I'm here," he said, perhaps a little too grouchily.

Her face brightened with relief, and she whirled back around, as if given the opportunity to serve royalty. After a quick minute of prep, she placed his breakfast before him, which was usual fare on the islands: a generous pile of rice, tossed with sizzling meat, and fried egg, with all of it slathered in brown gravy. _I've forgotten what real food looks like_ , he thought, pulling the plate towards himself. In a fast swoop, and without a word of thanks, he sliced off and shoveled monstrous bites into his mouth.

Though he smacked and slurped like he had never learned any manners-somehow, being in this house threw all of his training right out the window-his mother continued to watch him, aglow with strange pride. She finally took a seat across from him, and eventually, he realized how intensely she was watching him. He swallowed his current morsel, wiped his mouth free of gravy with his hand, and bunched up his shoulders defensively. "Uh… Whatta you starin' at?"

"Oh…" She blinked and shifted her feet apologetically, but didn't break eye contact. "It's just… It's good. To see you. You've grown so much..."

"Okay," he said, squinting at her. "Well, you're creepin' me out."

As if not hearing a thing he said, she glanced over his bare arms. "Goodness, you're skin and bones. Are you eating enough?"

He nearly ended up making a crack about _her_ weight in retaliation, but before he could lower himself to insulting his mother, the door to his parents' bedroom opened.

Father emerged.

He was fully dressed for work: hair clean and combed, pink polo shirt tucked into khaki pants, modest timepiece at his wrist. Since Guzma had left home, his father had clearly gained weight and showed signs of more pronounced aging. A little more hunched over. A little slower. Some gray hairs mixed with the brown. Somehow, Guzma kept imagining his face still twisted in some horrendous, bashed-in horror, but the wounds had healed over forever ago, and whatever bones that once snapped had since fused back into familiar form. He still wore his lax, disinterested expression, as if nothing ever surprised or amused him.

Once he approached the table, the father and son locked eyes. All calm drained from the room.

"Good morning," his mother said.

His father didn't regard her at first, instead sealing his eyes onto Guzma. "So," he said, taking in a weary breath. His voice sounded as dry and overbearing as ever, and he tucked a hand into his pocket as he talked. "Look who's decided to grace us with his presence. Not too much of a big shot to visit us little people, huh?"

"You must be so busy," his mother interrupted, looking to Guzma. She suddenly appeared nervous. "I'm sure you would have come sooner, if you could."

To Guzma's immense displeasure, his father followed up by pointing to his eye and snidely inquiring, "There a story behind that?"

Through clenched teeth, Guzma answered, "Not really."

"Hmm." That, as it turned out, was all his father had to say on the matter. He saw her sitting and looked mildly irritated by it. "Breakfast coming?"

"Give me just a minute," she said quickly, jumping to her feet and turning for the stove.

His father stood there, seemed to calculate something, then broke away and approached his wife from behind. He watched her scooping food onto the plate for a moment, and she seemed only vaguely aware of his presence, because when he suddenly reached out and grabbed her by the hips, she jerked in surprise.

"Good morning to you, too," he grumbled, pressing against her, making throaty, warm noises. He whispered something else into her ear as he wrapped his arms all the way about her waist, gripping her tight.

His mother tried to laugh it off uncomfortably, as she didn't want to make a scene, but Guzma could not contain his offense. He instinctively pulled a disgusted face, lifted a hand to ward off the sight, and whined childishly, "God! I'm like, right here! Trying to eat!"

His father immediately untangled himself and flashed his son a condescending look. He jabbed, not without a smirk, "How do you think you came into this world, huh?"

Guzma dropped his fork onto his plate, mortified. A disproportionately intense grinding of chagrin hit his gut, and he glowered up at his father, ready to flip the table and fight.

"Witt," his mother pleaded. "Please."

"What! He's about to be _married_ , isn't he? He oughta know these things."

" _I know_ ," Guzma retorted, burning with humiliation. "God, it's not like I'm a little―" What was happening right now? He felt himself shrinking again, folding back into being the burdened, belittled son. All the leverage he thought he would have, all the power―how did it mean nothing? In his anger, he lashed out. "Look, I really don't need to hear about you two bumping uglies!"

His mother gasped and nearly dropped the plate in her hand. She rarely scolded him, but this shocked her enough to make her admonish him. "Guzma! Honestly!"

Fortunately, though, Guzma felt satisfied in having said it, and his father seemed equally satisfied to have gotten a rise out of him. Without another word, his father trudged over to his chair, sank into it, and raised a newspaper over his face to scan its contents.

His mother hesitated in the face of this armistice. She made a peace offering in the form of the plate of food, then followed by a mug filled with black coffee, both of which she placed beside his father. She saw Guzma still eating and asked, "Do you want anything to drink? I could make you some―oh, that's right, we don't have any hot chocolate in the house right now―"

Guzma could hear his father grunt behind the newspaper; he flushed. "Mom―it's okay, I'll drink coffee now."

"Oh?"

His father had the guts to chuckle and lower his paper, reaching over to scoop a bite of food with his right hand. "Getting engaged has grown some hair on your chest, huh?"

Guzma chomped on his tongue. _C'mon_ , he pleaded inwardly. _You've only been in the room with him for five minutes._ He practiced his newly-learned acquiescence. "Yeah, I guess so."

It worked-sort of. His father didn't taunt him any further, at least.

His mother brought him his coffee, and he drowned it down with milk until it turned a pale, hazelnut color. It still tasted bitter and awful, but it was warm to his raw throat and helped push the drowsiness of poor sleep aside.

His mother got the courage to try conversation again. "How long are you planning on staying?"

Guzma just shrugged and gulped his coffee.

"Did you have any plans? Maybe you want to meet up with old friends?"

He knew his mom knew, like everybody did, that he didn't have childhood friends aside from Kukui, who really only half-counted anyway. He shrugged again, starting to look exasperated. "Not really."

"Maybe you should go visit Hala while you're here. I'm sure he'd like to see you."

Guzma heaved a sigh and rested his chin in his hand. " _Mom_. I can't see Hala right now, okay?"

"Well, why not? You're both kahunas now."

"It's not the same," he growled. "All right? Just butt out."

She read his hostility and puzzled over it. "When did you two have a falling out? Oh, I'm so confused." For a second, she glanced over to her husband, hoping to find some sign of mutual curiosity, but Guzma's father tucked behind his newspaper even further to signal he had no interest. "So… What have you been up to?"

"You watch the news?"

"Well, of course I do, but―"

"Then you _know_ what I've been up to."

A little crossly, she countered, "I'd still like to hear it from you."

"Yeah, well…" Guzma didn't finish, but took another swig of his coffee, signalling that he had no answer and didn't intend to give one.

"Besides. The things they say about you-I know a lot of it isn't true."

...This again. Guzma tried not to audibly groan. His mother had a mental block whenever it came to her family-a deluded refusal to believe anything distasteful about them, even if the truth stared her in the face. Of course her _precious little boy_ couldn't be the leader of some _horrible criminal enterprise_.

She immediately read his expression. "Is something the matter?"

Guzma dropped his mug on the table and scowled at her. "Whatta you talking about?"

"Well― you show up all of a sudden― no explanation of where you've been all these years, you can't even tell us how long you expect to stay― I just think we're owed _some_ kind of―"

He finally snapped. " _Mom_ , do you ever stop talking!?"

...And his father, as if the last several years hadn't happened, dropped his paper and returned to his old habit: he snipped at his wife rather than defend her. "Leave him alone. Doesn't have to explain anything if he doesn't want to."

So his mother, outnumbered, went silent.

* * *

For the remainder of breakfast, they ate in stark silence, unable to stomach words. His mother eventually retrieved her own food and sat down, taking nervous and occasional bites. Although the men had since sank into reserved and slumped quiet, she kept darting her eyes between them, like she expected a break in the peace at any second, and her fingers wrapped tightly about her cutlery.

It was right before she once again mustered the courage to speak that they all heard the sound of a car driving up the road, its tires crunching the gravel.

"...Oh." She put her fork down. "Who is it?"

Guzma had a feeling, and as such, brought his coffee mug back underneath him, clutching it like death.

His father noticed his nerves and pounced. "You expecting somebody?"

The car parked. The sound of its doors popping open followed.

His father sighed and lifted himself from his chair to go check on the identity of their unannounced visitors, cautiously checking out the window first. Then, upon seeing who it was, he let out an outraged snarl, locking eyes with Guzma. "What have you done _now_?"

Guzma didn't answer, only bolting upright and launching in the direction of the front window. He pushed aside the curtains and peered out: officers. Several of them.

With his silence, his father only became more agitated. "You on the lam or something? What are you trying to pull, here!?"

"I'm not―!" Guzma swallowed hard against the bile, choosing to growl and bang his fist against the glass rather than argue. "Augh!"

"Hey, watch it!"

"I'm outta here," he declared, heading straight for his room.

"Hey!" His father yelled after him. "Where you think you're going, genius? They'll snatch you right out that window, if that's what you're thinking."

The officers started knocking, and this, combined with his father's sarcasm, drove Guzma to turn back around and roar, "You wonder why I don't come home? The second I show, you call the cops on me!"

But his father folded his arms, snorting at him. "I didn't call anybody, _boy_."

The officers knocked again-more insistently this time-and as the father and son exchanged glances, their mutual loathing paused just long enough to realize that the mother had been silent this whole time; almost at the exact same moment, they turned to look at her.

She avoided their looks at first, pawing her food with a fork and pretending not to notice.

"Mom…"

His father planted a hand on his forehead and heaved an overwrought sigh. "...God's sake, Malia." He went for the door, muttering darkly to himself about his 'morning gone to crap.'

So Guzma followed up by screaming at her. "'Really glad to see me,' huh!?"

She cringed. "Guzma―"

"You want me locked up or what!?"

"It isn't like that! On the news…" She looked at him, pleading. "They thought you were hurt, they thought you were in some kind of trouble, so I just―"

* * *

"Good morning, sir. We're here to―"

"I _know_ why you're here," his father snapped. "Don't think you're coming in."

* * *

"I wanted them to know you were okay!"

"Are you _stupid_? You've screwed everything―!"

* * *

"Just tell me what he did," his father gruffly requested, placing his prominent body in the doorway to block anyone from either leaving or entering.

"I didn't _do_ anything!"

A young policeman helpfully corrected, "Technically, there's grand larceny involved. But they aren't pressing charges."

His father was the first to yelp about it. "Stealing!? What are you stealing for, don't you have money!?"

"I borrowed!" Guzma snarled at him. "I borrowed a boat, okay? It's not a big deal!"

And as the cops looked on rather helplessly, the household of three erupted into a loud, heated argument that could not be controlled. They yelled, launched accusations, complained, attacked each other's faults, and just when the police honestly contemplated locking all three of them up to save them the trouble of sorting anything out, a voice arose out of the fray, sounding mildly irritated.

"What's with all the noise?"

They all turned for the door-and saw two officers part to make way for Kahuna Nanu, who walked up on the front stoop with his familiar slouch and grimace. Though dressed less formally, still in his open-shirt uniform and flip-flops, crooked posture signalling that he came of his own accord but still didn't like it, his presence changed the house and its inhabitants immediately. Guzma's father instinctively backed up, and Nanu entered through the doorway. The room fell quiet. The kahuna looked first to Guzma, momentarily softening his expression to greet him.

"Hey, kid."

Guzma didn't answer; he only tensed, like he had been compromised.

"No smile for me?" Nanu teased, now also glancing over to his father.

The father was first to respond verbally, and huffed angrily. "Nanu? What are you doing here? This isn't even your island."

Nanu looked more amused than insulted, and raised a single eyebrow at the grown man. "Put it back in your pants, Witt; not gonna start a measuring contest with you." He waved at the officers, explaining, "I think I got it from here, if you don't mind. All right, folks. Let's hear it from the beginning."

* * *

Nanu felt a headache coming on.

Almost immediately after the other cops left him to sort things out, the three stooges went back to bickering, yelling, and throwing insults around. The mother seemed to be at the center, flummoxed and defending herself on both sides; the father cycled between barking things at his wife and Nanu; and the kid slung accusations and obscenities at his mother.

Nanu had attempted several times to get a word in, to no avail.

He rubbed his head and swallowed a deep, nasty groan.

 _This… This is why I always kicked domestic calls to somebody else_.

As Nanu watched them squabble, he tried to isolate the problem. Witt was being obnoxious, as usual, but clearly holding back―the guy never showed his true colors while sober or in front of outsiders. Malia was hysterical, but he couldn't really blame her, what with her being shouted down by the men of the family. So he turned his attention to the kid. Guzma was in the midst of a foul tirade, louder than either of them, hurling the nasty stuff right at the woman who raised him.

 _Criminy._ Nanu waited for Witt to have something to say about all this, but the father stood by, either content with it or too lazy to intervene.

Nanu slid up next to the kid, trying to gently interrupt. It didn't work.

 _Remember your training_. _Told yourself you wouldn't._

Then, Guzma decided to _go there_. After his mother said something that especially infuriated him, he growled, "Stupid b―"

 _Oh, screw it,_ was the last thought that shot through Nanu's brain, before his hand instinctively shot out, cuffing Guzma smartly on the back of his head. The kid squawked, sputtered an epithet, and suddenly, all the shouting ceased. After the initial shock wore off, Guzma turned to him, murder in his eyes.

But Nanu, older, smaller, and somehow more threatening, glared him down. He snarled harshly. "The devil's gotten into you! Talkin' to your mother like that!" He didn't give Guzma a chance to spew any nonsense back at him; he stabbed his finger into the kid's chest. "Don't think I couldn't whup your behind right here! But I'm feelin' generous today!"

He heard Witt suddenly leap into the fray. "Hey! You can't talk to my son like that!"

" _Witt_ ," Nanu said, danger edging his voice. "You wanna start with me today!?"

Nanu waited. He felt all three of their faces turned on him, different shades of hatred and loathing. He stood his ground, though, and Witt wilted into a chair, grumbling, while the boy turned his head to look away.

"...Didn't think so. Now, _you_ ―" Nanu didn't give Guzma an inch to retreat. He spoke through clenched teeth. "Get your butt out to the yard, 'fore I gotta drag it there myself."

"He doesn't have to―"

"Witt, shut it!"

Despite the father's whining, Guzma didn't complain, but limped contritely towards the door leading to the yard. Once he stepped outside, Nanu figured things would simmer down, but to his astonishment, he could hardly start placating anybody before the wife broke in, interrupting.

"W-wait just a minute!" Malia puffed and put her hands to her hips, glaring at him. Her face started to turn a powerful shade of red.

Nanu looked side-to-side morosely, thinking he'd missed something. "...Ma'am? Something wrong?"

"I call-because I want everyone to know he's okay-and you send out five officers, like he's some kind of criminal! Don't you see you've upset him? He wasn't hurting anyone! I think you should all be ashamed of yourselves! I think you're bullies! I think―"

Nanu heaved a sigh. He'd really done it now, letting her start talking. "Ma'am…"

"This would have never happened with Officer Daturo. He actually had some understanding―"

Nanu shot a glance over to Guzma's father, who didn't say anything but very clearly rolled his eyes. So he responded condescendingly, "Well, Daturo's not around anymore, is he?"

At this point, Malia tried to say something else, but starting her words proved impossible, and in her overwhelm, she sat herself in a chair and began sobbing. Nanu expected to get reamed out for making the wife cry, but Witt turned on her in her moment of weakness.

"What are you crying for!?" Witt snarled impatiently at her. "Would you get it together? You're making a fool of yourself!"

Nanu thought silently of a variety of things he could say; he thought on threats he could make, insults to Witt's manhood, dry jokes at their expense. Then he thought, _I'd better not_ , and reluctantly excused himself to the yard.

* * *

Families like these had a psychology that Nanu had figured out ages ago.

Families like these―they're more stable than they let on. They run on an internal logic: their own set of rules, truths built on and sustained within the privacy of their home. You might expect families like that to hate each other and fall apart, but in Nanu's experience, they often proved to have even tighter, if unhappier, bonds than normal families. They burrowed deeply together, snapping at each other viciously, but always snapping hardest at outsiders who threatened to upend their way of life. Consistency, to them, was God.

Guzma had broken the stability before by running away, and so stood out as the clear pariah of their little insular clan. But how quickly, Nanu thought, had the kid slipped back into the house and become an enforcer again, a loyal dog growling at the gate. You can run from a house, but you can't outrun what it teaches you.

When Nanu reached the yard, he found the young man had sat himself into the swing, which he could barely fit into, and was releasing nervous energy by kicking a spot on the grass, digging out the turf with the heel of his shoe. Nanu watched a second-marvelled at the infantile tantrum-then decided to approach, crossing the overgrown lawn in his sandals.

As he stood there, a few feets from him, Guzma acted like he didn't sense his presence at all.

"So." Nanu cleared his throat. "Care to explain?"

A single eye of Guzma's lifted from the edge of his face, glowering at him. He gripped the iron bars of the swingset and pulled himself onto his feet in a quick, frustrated motion.

"How is it you act like nobody ever gave you any home training?" Nanu shook his head in disgust. "Your father really is useless, isn't he."

Guzma immediately tensed and shot back at him. "Don't you talk about my dad."

As Nanu thought―snap, growl. _Predictable_.

"Am I under arrest?" The question came out of Guzma with more vulnerability than Nanu expected―like a little kid, whimpering and asking if they were in for it.

"What? No. No one's being arrested." He thought it on it a second. "Only crime committed so far is assault, and that one's on me."

Guzma, not absorbing the irony of Nanu's statement, started to fidget and worry. "Are―are we going back to Aether?"

"What?-no. I ain't your chauffeur."

Guzma sourly collapsed back into the swing. "But…" He gripped the ropes with both hands. "Miss Lusamine knows where I am now. She'll―"

"'Knows where you are'? Yeah, no kidding. This is only the _house you grew up in_. You didn't think it would take her all of two minutes?" Nanu sighed. "What's got you all spooked, anyway?" He angled his head to take a closer look at his face. Guzma expected him not to say anything, so it was a bit of a shock when he pointed it out. "What's with the shiner? Somebody take a swing at you?"

"Training accident."

"That's original. Wasn't your father, was it?"

Guzma glowered and flushed. He hated that Nanu knew. To cover his embarrassment, he bragged, "The last time he laid a hand on me, I sent him to the hospital."

"Hmm. Fair enough." Nanu shrugged and pulled out a flask. "You suicidal?"

" _What_?"

"Your lovely fiancee is tellin' the cops you left a note. Some 'cry for help' or whatever."

"God! No! I'm not―" He kicked the dirt. "She's twisting it! She always _twists_ things―!"

"Don't bite my head off," Nanu grouched. "I've got boxes I gotta check. Anyway, suicide paperwork's a real pain, so for my sake, don't do it, all right?" He took a drink from his flask and offered it.

"...No thanks."

"Suit yourself." With another slurp, he cleared his throat and pocketed the flask again. "She's a real high-strung lady. Heard she railed into the police chief for ten minutes when you first ghosted." Nanu must have imagined the sight, because he suddenly smirked. He had the sensitivity, though, to drop the smirk for his next question. "So, you mind telling me what this fuss is about? You get cold feet, or what?"

"I needed some space."

Nanu grunted and produced an old pad of paper that was probably only ever used to track lottery numbers and grocery lists. He pulled a pen from his pocket so as to say as he wrote, "Needed… Some… Space. Okay."

Guzma gave him an annoyed look.

"I'm taking your statement, kid; this isn't rocket science."

At first, Guzma took this as a signal to clam up entirely. He sat silent for the next minute, kicking the dirt, steaming, and grunting wordless curses. Eventually, though, the pressure got to him, and he launched himself up onto his feet, gripping the metal bar upholding the swing with both hands and ranting aloud. "I'm such a gutless creep! I never wanted none of this! She doesn't love me, and I'm not even sure that I―" He rested his aching forehead on the pole. "This is all so screwed up!"

Nanu had _tried_ to start writing all this down, but fairly quickly stopped, rolled his eyes, and stuffed the notebook and pen back into his pocket. "Kid…"

"I guess I like, felt sorry for her? Or―like I owe her! I don't know!"

Nanu tried again. " _Kid_."

"I should have said something _forever_ ago, and now the wedding is next week―!"

"Hey!" Nanu basically yelled. "You listenin' to me?"

Guzma finally stopped and looked to him.

"Do I _look_ like your marriage counselor? Criminy." He lifted his hands to express his dismay. "Ya got problems with the soon-to-be-missus. Noted. Been there myself. But all I need is for you to tell me what your plan is."

"...Plan?"

"We don't want any more surprises. So. Are you gonna stay here? Or are you planning on running somewhere else?"

"I ain't running nowhere."

Nanu looked like he wanted to contradict him, but instead shook his head, lip curled in faint disgust. "Why you keep lurking around here anyway? If I had folks like yours, I'd stay scarce."

Guzma roared, incensed. "That ain't any of your business!"

"Hmph. Lemme hazard a guess. When you've got a big-boy decision to make, and you're too chicken to do it― is that it? Think you can come here, pretend to be a kid again, so you don't have to decide?"

The guess wasn't perfect―but it hit a little too close. "I just wanted to see my folks," he retorted. He landed back into the swing, slumped, and stared down at his shoes, scuffing his toes into the worn dirt. "Is that such a big deal?"

Nanu's eyes narrowed at him. For a time, he dwelled on whether to speak, whether to drag out precisely what he meant to. It was a nice morning, Nanu suddenly thought, in a flash of an attempt at distracting himself-the air wasn't overly warm even in the sun, the breeze remained intermittent and calm, and the island had a stillness to it, an innocence and freshness he didn't know on Ula'ula. He wondered absently if kahunas took after their islands-or if somehow, it worked the other way around, and the islands shaped themselves after their guardians as the years went by. If that were true, Nanu would be guilty of something, indeed.

He thought on Hala. Blameless Hala. Strong, and vibrant, and kind, but stubborn, too, so wrapped up in tradition that he ended up being blind to certain things.

Thinking on that made Nanu at last speak his piece.

"Well, if you've come here to relive your childhood, you're a bit late."

Guzma looked puzzled at first, so Nanu spelled it out in slow, meticulous drawl.

" _Daturo ain't around anymore_."

The name immediately set Guzma on edge. His muscles knotted; his brow strained; he pushed himself back onto his feet, like he was ready to tackle something. "What's he got to do with anything!?"

"Your mother," Nanu responded calmly. "She just brought him up. But he transferred, you know. A few years back."

Guzma sputtered before he could properly strategize his response. "So what? I don't care; he was a freak."

The stray comment made Nanu raise an eyebrow at him. "What makes you say that?"

Guzma tightened his fists. He shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have aired that grievance out in the open. "He would…" He harshly scratched his head, a familiar knot forming in his stomach. After some time, he thought of a complaint he could safely leave out in the open. "He was always, acting a way, about my mom―"

"Chief told me he was a flirt. That what you mean?"

It wasn't a lie; it wasn't a truth. He could still remember the afternoons coming home from school, resting his chest hard against the picket fence, watching Daturo talk and laugh with her, even daring to reach out and touch her arm. It burned him. Burned him right down to the bone… His nails digging and peeling the paint and breaking off bloodied splinters... The pain of remembering it made him seethe.

Nanu, seeing his distress, went on, "Look. Everybody I ever talked to around here thought he was a friggin' saint. And your mother seems to think you two got along swimmingly."

"He was just another person who thought he could fix me, or whatever."

"Like Hala?"

This clearly hit a nerve. "No! He's nothing―" He shot a glare off to the house. "I ain't got nothin' to say about Hala."

"...Hmm." Nanu absorbed this, like it was precisely what he had expected to hear. "Well. Don't matter. Like I said. He transferred. That's what guys like him do. Settle, get in hot water a few too many times, then float away." He absent-mindedly smirked. "I should know. Got shuffled around plenty myself."

"...Were you a perv or something?" Guzma didn't ask the question very seriously―he aimed it out of anger, out of spite.

"Nah," Nanu dismissed, without taking offense. "Diddlin' kids wasn't my gig. I left that nonsense to freaks."

Nanu waited for Guzma to have something to say about that comment, whether through words or fists. But he said―and did―nothing. He fastened an arm against his gut, though, in an attempt to fight against some inward impulse.

"It ain't your fault, you know." Nanu reached behind himself, scratching his lower back. "These islands are a dumping ground. Nobody wants to work out here in the boonies―pay's crap, nothin' to do but sit on your rear―they kick the cops nobody wants over here. You know. The problems." When Guzma continued in his silence, Nanu sighed long and stretched his shoulders. "Okay, kid-here's the deal. As an old geezer, it's basically a law: I gotta offer some unwanted advice. You ready to hear it?"

Since Guzma didn't respond, he took it as an affirmative.

"All right." He sucked in a tired breath, and began his story, running his words together with passionless pacing. "You know, you remind me o' me, at your age. I got dealt a bad hand-won't bog you down with the details, but the short of it is, by the time I hit twenty, I was at a dead end. Mad at the world. Figured it owed me something, so I took what I wanted; didn't matter who I hurt. It took me a long time to sort things out..." Nanu scratched his chin and let that marinate. He went on more gently, "A guy could spend the rest of his life waiting for somebody to fix him, or chasin' down all the people who done him wrong. I've been in both those places. But that's a wasted life. At some point... " He shook his head at the blue horizon. "It's gotta come down to you. Not saying people can't affect each other-for good or bad. But we all gotta make our own choices in the end. We all gotta take responsibility. Play the hand we're dealt."

Of course Guzma heard it, but only understood a small portion of what he said. The last bit, he latched onto and wrongly interpreted as condemnation. He sucked in a breath, gripping his shirt, and did his best to hide the prickings at his eyes when he said, in his own defense, "I was just a kid."

Nanu could hear the hurt in his voice but didn't try to correct him for his misunderstanding. He only nodded, and replied, "I get that." Then he seemed to weigh the statement a little longer, and repeated, quieter this time, "...I get that. But you're grown up now, aren't you."

In the silence, Nanu turned away, facing the door back into the kitchen.

"Whatever it is you think you're doing here… Go ahead and do it. But make your choice, kid. Ain't nobody gonna make it for you. Meanwhile, I got stuff to do." Finally, Nanu reached into his front pocket, drew out a cigarette, and planted it at his lip. "I'd better wrap this up with your folks. Cops'll leave you be for now. So long as you don't start wailing on anybody."

Guzma faintly nodded, still staring off into space and clutching himself.

"Hmph. You're welcome and all."

Guzma sat up. "Hey―Uncle."

"Hmm?"

"You're still coming to the wedding?"

"Which wedding? ...The wedding you're not having? Or might have? The Schrodinger's wedding?"

"Yeah, that one."

Rather than argue, Nanu shrugged. "...Sure."

Guzma thought on this a moment. Still not looking him in the eye, he told him, "You know, you get a plus-one. You can bring anybody you want."

Nanu raised an eyebrow. "You got anybody in particular you want me to drag along?"

Guzma said nothing.

"Well. Take care of yourself, _Kahuna Guzma_."

* * *

Once Nanu had gone, another screaming match broke out in the kitchen, so Guzma remained out in the yard for a while, trying to keep his mind off it. At last, the bickering broke, the screen door slammed, and Guzma brought his head up. He saw his father with his work bag slung over his shoulder, descending the front steps and starting to take the path down to Hau'oli.

"Dad," he tried to say, calling after him.

But his father didn't turn around, instead trudging up the road, waving dismissively behind himself to signal that he had heard him but felt no need to answer him.

Guzma listened to his mother inside the kitchen, crying. After a few minutes, though, her crying subsided and was replaced by the clatter of cleaning up the dishes from breakfast.


	19. Lover's Leap

**Chapter 19: Lover's Leap**

Gender politics in Team Skull was tricky business. Because most of the grunts were young, there was still a yuck-factor in mixing, an occasional panic about an outbreak of cooties; the slightly older ones were a complex blend of relaxation and even more heightened sensitivities. Some boys and girls hung together like it wasn't a big deal. Some dated, and among the more advanced ages, did more. Others clutched to same-gendered peers and formed clans, swearing against the other. Guzma didn't police this very much, much to the chagrin of Plumeria, who had to put up with some of the boys' casual misogyny.

Guzma would end up with the boy clans most days, lounging about, making cracks about inappropriate topics as boys liked to do.

One unspoken rule about boy-talk that held extremely true in Team Skull: don't complain about your father. Don't you dare. Most of the boys had problem-fathers: abusive, neglectful, weak-willed, absent. All of them could be said to be _aware_ of that fact, and no one would have denied it, if the fact were brought to their attention. But whining about your father beating you or not loving you enough was the fast way to get someone to call you something or to say you've got "daddy issues," and everyone knows what _that's_ code for. Plus, it opened up the possibility that you preferred your mother over your father, and lord help you if somebody got to call you a "mama's boy."

No: it's much safer to complain about your mother. Moms, they agreed, could be a real pain, always telling them what to do, nagging, stupid, never understanding.

Sometimes, though, it wasn't enough to stay silent on fathers. So they engaged in their ritual and sat in a circle to brag about their fathers' prowess. It would start in familiar fashion: my dad could beat up your dad. Which turned to: my dad used to whup me, haha, used to whup me good, haha, he'd knock my teeth out, he'd bust me, haha. And in this way, they communicated what they wanted to believe-that they were strong for having survived it, and that somehow, this was a paternal gift to them, a lesson in resilience given on purpose.

Some of them exaggerated or even made stuff up, especially the ones everyone knew didn't even have a dad. But no one called them out on it, because truth wasn't the point. The point was avoiding the truth, hiding it under laughter.

Guzma was the best at it.

"My dad taught me everything I know," he said, puffing his chest. "How to fight. How to take a lickin', and give one, too. Taught me how to take a punch. How to break a guy's nose, if I needed to. How to not let nobody mess with me." He danced in the center of the room, throwing swift and cruel punches into the air to demonstrate his technique. The boys cackled in glee at watching him. "Yeah," he went on to boast, and this part was especially honest: "He made me what I am."

* * *

As his mother cleaned the kitchen, Guzma decided to take advantage of the pleasant weather and free his party out in the yard. The array of bugs stood baffled at first, snuffling the air, circling their spindly bodies to identify where they stood. Golisopod, as Guzma suspected, chuffed unhappily at seeing the house and stomped its feet in minor protest. But within a minute or two, all of his pokemon―Golisopod, Ariados, Pinsir, and Masquerain, too―collapsed on the ground and rolled in the grass in a frenzied desperation (he realized then, they hadn't felt grass in a long time). Thankfully, the lawn wasn't too muddy from the rain in recent days, so the worst they did was tear up the turf.

"Nut cases," he said, watching them flop and growl and snap when they inevitably rolled into each other.

Because his heart still hammered, he approached and seated himself down onto the grass with them, the scratchy blades tangling up against his bare ankles. He stared out at the berry fields first, then took to uprooting turf with his fingers boredly.

His Ariados was first to wander over, sticking its head in his face.

"Hey." He paused to reach up and circle his fingers around the back of its skull, reaching the spot he knew it liked. It clacked its mandibles excitedly. "Home sweet home, huh?" he said aloud, sourness weighing down his voice.

He sighed all of a sudden, throwing himself back until he lay flat on the ground; he threw his arms out and lost himself in the atmosphere.

"What am I _doing_?"

He felt the gravity pressing down on his lungs and limbs, and he saw the swirl of clouds up above, smearing the great dome of sky. If he focused, he could feel the planet spin on its axis, with his body pinned to its surface. Though no philosopher by any account, he could not escape the natural revelation of looking up and feeling very, very tiny. The sleepiness returned, weighing down his eyelids.

Then, a smash of a plate and a scream came from the kitchen, and he bolted upright. The monsters buzzed with excitement, pursuing his heels as he took off running for the house.

"Mom!?"

The door leading to the yard was open―it must have been left ajar―and just as he noticed that, he saw the cause of the shriek: his Ariados, in its curiosity and excitement, had scuttled into the house, found his mother, and recognizing her, cornered her in the kitchen. It waved its front legs at her in earnest greeting, seemingly oblivious to her terror as she pressed between the countertop and refrigerator and lifted her sandalled foot to ward it away. Her hands dripped with globs of foam from the sink, where the remaining dishes soaked; moisture spotted her apron.

She looked up at him pale-faced. "G-Guzma! Please―"

He didn't know who he wanted to yell at more: his mother, for her cowardice, or his pokemon, for its over-eagerness. He swallowed and sighed roughly instead. Without any hurry, he walked astride the creature, nudging it out of the way first with his knee and then bumping its abdomen with the toe of his shoe, pushing it in the direction of the open door, and said, alternating his scolding, "Go, go!―Look, he's not gonna hurt you―C'mon, outside!"

Ariados complained, clicking its jaws and scooting reluctantly across the kitchen and dining room floor, but it gradually found the open doorway and slipped its weight down the short steps, back onto the lawn. Guzma shut the door and could hear his mother, from across the room, catch her breath.

"I-I!" She had a hand to her chest, and she slumped in relief against the counter. "I never did understand why you…" She shook her head. "That thing is awfully big, isn't it?"

"I mean… Kinda…" As he walked back to the kitchen, he watched as his mother returned to the soapy sink. Most of the dishes already sat newly-cleaned on the counter. Seeing the dishes made him suddenly contemplate her nature: this woman, whom he always pictured cleaning, fixing, mopping, sorting... If he combed through his memories, he would find few times of honesty, or true kindness, or sharing with her―and no memories of ever performing chores in her stead, not in all the years he lived under this roof.

His mother stooped stiffly to reach the plate shards on the floor. An impulse came over him. "I got it," he said suddenly, diving for them and piling the porcelain pieces in his hand.

His mother hesitated, straightening upward and standing over him with agony to her voice. "You don't have to… It was my fault…"

He didn't reply to her self-blame. The plate had broken into large, easily collected bits, so it took only a few seconds to find and throw them into the garbage.

With the accident cleared away, she went back to the dishes and rinsed another plate. He trundled up beside her. "Let me help," he said suddenly, plucking the rinsed dish into his hand.

She almost snatched the plate back from him. "Oh… Well…"

He strong-armed his way to a towel and began to dry. "It's not like I got anythin' else to do."

Somehow, his volunteering agitated her more than it calmed her; she went to the sink to rinse the remaining dishes and ease her nerves. She eyed him cautiously as he wiped the next plate down, and looked like she desperately wanted to say something when he placed it in the cupboard. He wanted to snap at her, ask if he was doing something _horribly wrong,_ but enough guilt crawled in his gut from earlier to restrain himself. He had cussed her out plenty for one day.

She finally stopped her gawking and tried to start conversation. "You don't…" She set a few clean cups onto the counter. "You don't have plans for the day?"

"Dunno. Might take a walk." He gave her a sideways look, and awkwardly returned the question. "How 'bout you?"

"Oh," she dismissed, waving a hand, "I always have things to do around the house."

For a second, Guzma glanced about the house, as if to search for such sources of imperfection. It looked immaculate. Spotless. "Uh-huh."

"It's really all right," she said. "You don't have to keep me company. Go, if you want."

That was Mother: endlessly distracted, endlessly self-sacrificing. Like she was addicted to everyone stepping over her.

"You'll be back in time for supper, won't you?"

He grunted. "The island's not _that_ big, Ma."

"When you were a little boy," she said, "you would spend all day out there."

"Yeah, well―" He was thrown, somewhat, by her kicking up nostalgia. "I'm not a kid anymore."

"No…" She dipped the saucepan into the water and sighed. "You're all grown now…"

As she scrubbed, there came an uncomfortable span of silence, which she chose to break with a question.

"Why don't you tell me about your fiancee?"

Guzma frowned. He pretended not to hear her.

"I hardly know anything about her―I've seen her on TV, I guess. She looks awfully fancy. Isn't she a bit old for you?"

"Yeah, that's…" He groaned and shook his head. "One wrinkle…"

His mother stopped suddenly, staring at him.

Unnerved at being examined, he asked, "What?"

"...You don't get along with her, do you?"

"Why do you―ugh!"

She put her hands to her hips. "I can _tell._ Did you two have a fight? Is that what all this is about?"

"Mom! I don't wanna talk about, all right?"

"I don't see why you won't! You talked to that― horrible, rude man all this morning!"

"Nanu's not 'horrible' okay? He just―he's just tryin' to help―"

"Well, I don't like the way he talked to you or your father. I don't see how a nasty person like that gets to call himself a kahuna."

"Mom, do you ever―!" He shut the cupboard a little too hard on its hinges. "Stop and listen to how stupid you sound!"

She flinched.

(Why did he always do this? Why could he not control his temper around her? Even if he tried to start out cordial, she would say something vapid and rage-inducing and set him off again.)

Fighting a renewed wave of shame, Guzma dropped out of the conversation with a sudden turn of his body. He stomped toward his room. There, he took only a minute to put on a jacket and dark glasses, and collect his smaller belongings―wallet, phone, and, after a sliver of hesitation, his gold watch, which he clasped onto his wrist. (He told himself he wouldn't, but he popped a pill. He already started to feel nauseous, and wanted to take more, but he compromised to keep the edge off. Another compromise: he stuffed the bottle in his pants pocket, in case he needed it later.) As he charged out the front door, he grumbled only a vaguely hostile "see you" to his mother; his pokemon, still in the yard, he bid goodbye with a little more formality by leaning over the fence and patting their heads.

He didn't know where he was going, exactly. But he couldn't be here.

* * *

One widely-reported and respected element of Alola's culture was its reception of visitors, in particular visitors who also happened to be famous. In other regions, if you were known enough, people quickly mobbed you with cameras and questions, forcing you to duck down alleyways or into limousines. The attention might have pleased you at first, but in time, the relentless chase wore on you. And then, one day, a friend told you: go to Alola. In Alola, everyone is family. You could be the King of Kalos, and the people of the islands will smile, nod, and treat you like a brother.

Guzma supposed that was why no one, in his full circling of the island, tried to stop him on his way and pester him, even though most of them had known him since he was a child. His old neighbors. Young men and women who once attended school with him. Residents of the small towns he used to walk through regularly; owners of shops he used to frequent. All these people stared, and no doubt recognized him for who he was, but did no more than politely nod, if they caught his look, and smile-maybe even wave. But they would do no more, lest they commit the grave social sin of making someone feel out of place or like they stuck out. He was no longer a mere resident whom they could plague with personal greetings; he was the Aether Kahuna, the ex-boss of Team Skull.

Overall, Guzma felt incredibly alien here, like he had been dropped on some distant planet. It should feel like home… The rocky northern cliffsides, the golden meadow dotted with happy couples, the grassy fields, the hills, the stillness of the graveyard, the towering facades of rock plummeting into Kala'e Bay far below, the grass huts of Iki Town and the sleek modernity of Hau'oli. Yet he could not escape the desire to creep between its edges and avoid being seen, as if he was here on bad business. He especially hurried past Iki Town, where Hala could be anywhere, and near the southern shore, where Kukui's shack-lab rested. He could take the gawk-eyed looks of past acquaintances… Just not them. Not now.

Despite its strangeness, he accepted the several hours of solitude. The sights transported him in short fits to times long past, preventing him from dwelling on the present. He stopped frequently, letting the whirling, sharp colors of his high settle back into place like dust. He pushed on boulders and uprooted plants. He sat in empty places, and busy ones, too, lazily watching the movements of beachgoers and townsfolk. The island was in its off-season for tourism, and the weather was pleasantly cool to prove it, so he didn't have to worry much about foreigners pointing him out. Everything moved dreamlike and slowly, so that he had room to breathe for once.

Mele'mele was small enough, though, that he ran out of viable surface area to reasonably explore with a few measly hours. He turned back to the way toward Hau'oli, found the shopping mall, and decided to spend some money. Guzma had not packed a full suitcase in his hurry, which meant he managed two shirts, two pairs of pants, and… just about nothing else. He didn't even grab his laptop; he at first lamented his failing to bring it, before remembering that he had enough money to buy five additional laptops and not hurt at all for it. So in a typically male manner, he entered precisely the stores he wanted, wasted no time in grabbing exactly what he desired, and paid for it, completing the entire spree in less than an hour. He planned on immediately returning to the house, to drop off his bags and maybe set up his new laptop, but a quick turn out of the mall, and a quick turn of fate, led him to nearly collide with his father in the middle of the street.

The two of them stopped and looked at each other, calculating what the other's presence meant. They didn't offer any greeting, but his father spoke first after spotting the cluster of plastic bags dangling from Guzma's hands.

"You went shopping?" (His voice had a cautious, vaguely accusational tone to it.)

"Yeah." Guzma shrugged. "I didn't bring a lot of stuff with me."

His father judged the number of bags suspiciously. "Just how long do you plan on staying?"

Guzma dodged the question. "Pops, you playing hooky, or what?"

"' _Pops'_ ―!" His father snorted in disgust, and his attention was thus effortlessly diverted. "It's my lunch hour. I suppose you're used to servants bringing you food at any time of day, but around here, we have to fetch it ourselves."

His father started to move, side-stepping him, but Guzma impulsively pursued him, in part to annoy him. "Where you eating?"

"It's―" The man paused mid-step and sighed. "It's a new take-out place. Opened a few years ago. You wouldn't know it."

"Is it good?"

"I eat there every other day; what's that tell you?"

Guzma grinned at his visible irritation and patted his stomach. "Is that where you're packin' on those pounds?"

"I'll have you know that's your mother's cooking." He briefly looked Guzma up-and-down, recovering from his frustration. "I guess staying a few days might do you some good. You're looking real scrawny." His father appeared to think on something, by the way his eyebrows pressed together. Finally, he made a begrudging decision. He waved for Guzma to follow him. "Well, I better get you fed you before a stiff breeze comes through."

"Huh?"

"C'mon," his father said impatiently, already starting down the road. "I'll show you the place."

Guzma had a few, scattered, mildly pleasurable memories of his father. Most of them centered around food―festival food, snack food, vendors and food courts. Oftentimes, food served as silent speaking, as his father was both too lazy and too emotionally stunted to find any other means of starting an interaction. If they could eat together, even without saying anything, or anything of profound meaning anyway, they could persist in pretending to have a relationship.

The offer to buy him lunch was transparent: his father wanted to figure out what he was up to. Guzma could have shut it down. He didn't. He hoisted his bags and followed.

* * *

When Guzma lived far away from his father, it became easy for him to remember things a certain way. He would think most vividly of his father's ample, terrorizing flaws, especially those which produced the worst of his home memories. He would, with distance, more easily think of him not as a man, but as a long shadow in a bad dream, a monster, a creature deserving of deep animosity. Guzma could happily imagine him destroyed.

But it got complicated―being around him in person.

It wasn't that the hatred fell away or lessened. They had never gotten along very well; their personalities were too different, and in other ways, too alike to sustain an amiable relationship. However, walking and talking with him for more than a few minutes made Guzma come to the uncomfortable realization that his father was human, not some nightmare-beast. His father rarely curbed his nasty attitude, but once in awhile, when relaxed and sated, and especially when it was just the two of them together, the man could emulate being a normal middle-aged father. He'd crack bad jokes (to which Guzma, as the son, was obligated to groan), he'd gossip about rumors overheard at the office, he'd complain about the weather, he'd deliver impromptu lectures about life.

...Or give horrendously unwanted advice about how to pick up girls.

("Well, look, when I was your age, I had girlfriends, so if you need me to―")

So, his father, a commandeering, selfish, petty person capable of great harm, could be funny, too, as well as bumbling, awkward, feeble, and well-meaning.

Complicated.

Guzma loathed it.

* * *

They sat on the wall facing out to sea; his father had his legs planted safely on the street-side, digging into his seasoned fried fish with a set of chopsticks. Being originally from Kanto, Witt preferred the savory seafood of Kantonese cooking, over the frequently salty-sweet teriyaki flavors of the island's meats. Guzma straddled the wall with his legs, seated some distance away, fluffing his own box of shredded pork with a fork.

The two ate, hardly looking in the other's direction. Guzma watched the waves breaking on the sand, and his father seemed satisfied eyeballing the various people who walked by and tried not to stare.

As the lack of small talk began to agonize him, Guzma offered an opener. He swallowed a bite and said, "It's good."

His father dipped his eyes into the paper box in his own hand, stabbing his chopsticks at the last remnants of his fillet. "Told you."

Guzma, before he could catch himself, snorted in amusement. He put down his food and gave the tall, glossy buildings a broad look. "Have things changed much around here?"

"As much as you can expect," Witt said, shrugging. "Shops closing, opening. People moving."

A beat of silence, then his father thought of something.

"That Ilima kid's been captain a few years now."

Guzma instinctively hunched over, fully expecting this to be a dig at his own past failure, but his father continued.

"That family acts like they're royalty around here," he huffed. He glanced in the direction across the bay where, though currently obscured by an array of tall buildings uptown, Ilima's sizeable house rested at the western rim of the island.

Though his father didn't outwardly express it, Guzma could hear several emotions at work in his grumbling: envy, primarily, of the family's status in the community and obscene wealth; antipathy for the island's leadership; and a deep-seated tribalism, a nudge to Guzma, welcoming him back into an old us-versus-them mentality. Guzma almost fell for it―almost responded with bitter commentary of his own. Then, he recognized the statement for what it was: trivial, juvenile whining.

Guzma, for a fleeting moment, felt embarrassed for him.

Since he refrained from responding, his father sighed and placed his chopstick inside his now-empty carton. "Did you hear what the news is saying about you?"

Guzma didn't; he'd been avoiding learning anything.

"They were trying to say you had some kind of mental breakdown." He saw Guzma's expression of aghast horror. "Relax. Their tune's changed. Your… Woman. She's telling everybody you're here for 'personal reasons.' Guess that's true enough, huh? She's pretty keen on keeping the press away from you, though―she said she'll sue them for harassment, if they give you hassle."

That would explain the crickets from news crews. Guzma had been checking over his shoulders ever since arriving on the island, expecting at least one reporter to show up with the intention of getting to the bottom of things.

"Tell you one thing, boy," his father said, the slightest hint of commendation in his voice, "You made an interesting pick. That woman's no pushover."

"...Yeah."

"Is that what you like about her?"

The personal question caught Guzma completely off-guard. He curled a lip to communicate how much he disliked it being asked. "I dunno."

"What do you mean, you 'don't know'? You're marrying her." Witt paused to think of a new approach, and continued, "She's got nice legs."

Guzma sputtered and released an exasperated groan of disapproval. "Oh my god."

"What? I'm not allowed to notice these things?"

"You ain't got no right―"

"'Ain't got no'..." his father interrupted, mockingly echoing him. "I'm not one of your thug friends; you can speak English to me."

"You want English?" Guzma leaned in threateningly. " _Don't_. _Talk about her._ "

His father limply lifted a hand in surrender and didn't pretend to feel intimidated. "...Alright, alright. Whatever." Under his breath, loud enough for Guzma to overhear, he complained, "Between you and your lawyers, I guess I'm not allowed to talk about anything." As Guzma tried to parse the puzzling gripe, his father continued, "You could've just asked us; I don't see why you had to send your legal goons to the house―"

Guzma interrupted, furious at being wrongly accused. "What are you talking about?"

"Your lawyers."

"―When did you see lawyers?"

His father didn't answer for a second, appearing a bit put off and embarrassed, then relented, rubbed his head, and mumbled, "Maybe you didn't… Hmph."

" _Dad_."

The man spoke blandly and averted his eyes, putting on a show about being unaffected by it, even though his bellyaching a second ago had proven otherwise. "It was a while ago. Back when you had your big PR stunt―the news conference? Quick as anything, they showed up at the house. Anyway. They made us sign a whole ream of papers. Nondisclosure agreements, mostly." He clarified, noting Guzma's unfamiliarity with the term, "We're not allowed to talk to the press about you."

"Uh…" Guzma scratched his shoulder self-consciously. That was months ago now―in retrospect, he should have anticipated Lusamine's interest in keeping his parents both away from him and silent, lest they let slip anything that could tarnish the image she had created. "Didn't know nothin' about that…"

His father shrugged again. "...It was probably for the best. Knowing your mother, she would've started showing your baby pictures to anybody who knocked on our door."

Guzma pictured it―and snorted a laugh.

After finishing his food, Witt checked the time and decided he had run this conversation as long as he could spare. He stiffly rolled himself back onto his feet, balancing the empty carton in his hand. "Well. I'd better go. Some of us still work for a living."

"I work," Guzma contradicted.

If there were enough time, his father might have stood there and started an argument over it, but he had gone well over his allotted lunch hour, and so he ended their exchange by rolling his eyes and grumbling, "Uh-huh. Right." He gave Guzma a measured, distrustful look; the bright sun hit his face in such a way that it darkened his face. "I suppose you're going back to the house."

"Yeah."

A mysterious emotion, driven by uncertain, passed over Witt's face. He warned cryptically, "Don't cause any trouble."

Only because he had bested his father before, Guzma jokingly pointed at himself and sneered. "Who, me?"

There came no reply to that; Witt turned toward the western side of the city to return to his natural habitat of cubicles and copy machines. Behind Guzma, the waves thudded on the beach in hissing, perpetual swings, grasping at the ankles and waists of swimmers daring to tread its waters. In the midst of the tumult and tossing of the early afternoon's breeze, he bent to pluck the handles of his bags back into his fingers.

* * *

Every one of his pokemon greeted him at the house by pressing their bodies up against the fence, like they meant to crush it under their weight. They chittered, shook, and twitched, beckoning him with heart-wrenching earnestness. Guzma placed his bags on the front step first, and Golisopod, nearly thinking it was being ignored, smashed its broad claws against the fence to produce a sharp cracking sound.

"Hey! Chill!" he hollered. He hurried to the fence, but before he could reach it, his Masquerain zipped above the fray of clacking mandibles to squeal and collide with his face. "What! What!" He batted the creature forcefully away in his surprise, sending it flapping to the back of his head. It dangled from his hair as he approached the others. "Geez, whatta you worked up for?"

As if answering him, each of his pokemon erupted into frantic burbling and scraping of the fence. Apparently, having the morning to run about freely had not rid them of their energy. He groaned and reached out for Golisopod, which over-eagerly planted its forehead against his palm. So, for just a moment, he tried to bring a semblance of peace back into the creature, smoothing his hand on its shell.

The front door creaked open, and his mother stepped out to investigate the racket. Upon seeing him, she spoke up in surprise. "Guzma! You're home already?" She wiped her hands down on her apron. A look of concern appeared in her face. "...Some people came by looking for you."

Golisopod pushed on his hand and whistled and grumbled, as if to echo her report with added insistence. No wonder his team was on edge. Strangers at the house...

Though Guzma worried that he already knew the answer, he asked, "What people?"

"They didn't say." She dipped her hands into her apron pocket, producing a sealed envelope. "They brought you a letter. I told them you weren't here―but they said someone had to sign for it, so I did―"

He didn't wait for her to finish. He fell away from his pokemon, rushed her, and snagged the letter out of her hand to look at it: a white envelope, with crisp, gold lining. He felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Guzma! What is it?"

...There was no return address or writing on its exterior, but the symbol inscribed served better than a fingerprint. He stared at it for several seconds, dumbstruck, then wrested his bags and himself past his mother in the doorway, wordlessly stalking toward his room. She tried―and failed―to elicit a response from him, until he shut the bedroom door behind him, silencing her.

* * *

Guzma noticed that his mother had, against his request, unpacked his duffel bag and put his clothes in the dresser drawers. Suddenly, he was thankful that he had taken the pills out. He didn't need her snooping around his medication.

He dropped his shopping bags near the door, balancing the envelope between two fingers, and collapsed onto his bed with a dramatic heave and sigh. He didn't move for several moments. Just lay there―hoping to drag time to a stand-still.

It didn't work.

Ultimately, he flopped himself onto his back, holding the envelope up toward the ceiling to examine and ponder it. Its properties had not charged. White. Lightweight. Clean. Since he spent quite a while twirling and turning it over, a sound emerged from his open window, and he turned to find Golisopod had stuck its head through. It grunted and tried to fit―obviously failing miserably―then continued to chatter at him.

He stared at the letter again.

"I'm not opening it," he said aloud.

Golisopod rested its head on the windowsill, eyes steady on him.

"I know what it is," he snarled. "And I don't care." He felt the impulse to throw it away, but he didn't have a trash bin near his bed, so he compromised by allowing it to slide to the floor through the space between his bed and end table. The act didn't have the satisfying finality of dropping it into the garbage; suddenly, he regretted not shredding it while it still remained in his hands, but he didn't have the will to crawl around the floor and recover it. For now, it could stay there. Out of sight. Out of mind.

But its presence in his hands had drained him, and all at once, his lack of sleep caught him. A heaviness fell over him. A queasiness. A throbbing, centered pain… He tried to shut his eyes and push it back, but it forced itself, crushing its weight against his brain. Instinctively, his hand wandered to his pocket to extract the pills, and for a time he didn't consider taking any, but merely tipped the bottle back and forth, sending its clicking contents sliding from top to bottom. There weren't many left. He'd be hurting soon.

Ignoring the bouncing antennae and complaining whistles of his partner, he extracted another pill―one, measly sliver of relief―and with it, was able to sink his consciousness for a while. He buried himself in his covers, clothes and all; he didn't so much sleep as he let his mind empty for a few hours, letting the afternoon slant of light darken into early evening. Once in a while, Golisopod, or even another of his pokemon, would poke their head through to try and rouse him. But he had fixed his body into a stiff, immovable object.

* * *

He finally heard the front door to the house open: evidence of his father's return from work. A few bland greetings exchanged between his parents, then footsteps, then the television clicking on to blast some news commentary.

Finally, a timid knock at his door.

"Guzma."

He didn't answer.

"Dinner's going to be ready soon. Are you going to eat with us?"

Still, she waited. Her feet shuffled nervously, but when it became apparent he wasn't going to come out, she sighed and pulled herself away.

Guzma had forgotten how thin the walls were. The conversation that started in the living room came through his bedroom door as clear as day:

"I'm worried about him," his mother said.

"What for?"

"I don't know… Something's wrong… He's been in there for hours."

His father had no insight into that.

"I think it's his fiancee. They're having some kind of tiff," his mother said.

"If they are," his father replied, "they're not the first couple to have a big fight right before their wedding. They'll figure it out."

"I think we should..."

"Malia. Stay out of it."

For the remainder of the evening, he heard nothing else but the clatter of a few dishes and the squeak of chairs.

* * *

When Guzma finally emerged, his mother and father still sat at the table, although the dishes had been mostly cleared and his father had dressed down for the evening, replacing his polo with a t-shirt and light brown jacket. In all the years Guzma had been gone, his father's fashion sense hadn't changed at all: Guzma still remembered that same coat, and knew what it meant.

"You goin' out?"

His parents, startled, turned to look at him. His mother almost said something, but his father cut in, ignoring Guzma's question. "You look like death warmed over. We were starting to wonder if you had a pulse."

"Did you want something to eat?" His mother gauged his appearance, too, and didn't like what she saw. "We still have some―"

But Guzma sluggishly dragged himself toward the yard, shrugging his shoulders. "Nah, I'm good."

Outside, Guzma greeted and returned his party to their pokeballs; they had been out and unsupervised long enough, and the upturned grass and damaged fence was proof enough of that. He was surprised he hadn't gotten lip from his father about it yet, but perhaps the man knew better than to tempt fate. By the time Guzma went back inside, his father had stood to his feet, fitting his jacket more firmly about his body.

Again, Guzma asked: "So, goin' out?"

Witt breathed a tired breath through his nostrils. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am―do you _need_ something?"

"I could use a drink."

"...Uh-huh." Clearly, his father had an opinion on this, but withheld it for now.

His mother nagged, "Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

"I can eat at Keone's."

She frowned. "Guzma…"

"Do what you want," his father announced. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and turned for the door, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. "I can't stop you, can I?"

 _No,_ Guzma thought, _you really can't_.

* * *

The bar Witt frequented was really the only proper bar on the island. Historically, a small population and an only semi-frequent wave of tourists meant that no market existed for having too many of any kind of establishment: one bar, one malasada shop, one grocery store, one… Of just about everything. Most of the full-service restaurants survived by staying open during select summer months, when tourism was strongest, and the others only managed to stay open year-round by serving alcohol in the out-season to keep locals in attendance.

So this was really it, unless you wanted to squeeze into a table next to a pack of squalling children in order to drink a watered-down margarita.

Mele'mele's bar―"Keone's"―had a cluttered interior, including large wooden tiki statues seated on the counters and in corners of the room, bamboo furniture, grassy overhangs, potted jungle plants that brushed against you as you tried to navigate the narrow spaces, and blinking string lights tangled up along the ceiling. It contained every essential element that tourists like to _ooh-and-ahh_ over before ordering one of those ridiculous cocktails served in a hollowed-out pineapple. Locals didn't much care for the style, finding it tacky and perhaps a little insulting, but the bar had been on the island for as long as anyone could remember, and the owners could depend on Mele'mele's residents to show up, anyway.

Guzma entered the place behind his father, staying back a comfortable distance and judging the establishment. A number of customers of assorted ages sat slumped over the central countertop, nursing their respective beers. None of them turned upon their entrance; some stared ahead, some flicked their eyes to the television screen broadcasting stats from a competition ongoing in another region. No doubt some of them had placed bets.

On the other side of the bar, from the hollow of a booth, the two heard a slurring voice call out.

"Ma-a-a-ack!"

Witt snapped his head in its direction, and the sound of an insistent, open-handed slap on a wood table followed.

"Macky!"

His father sighed shortly and shuffled towards the racket. "Yeah, yeah."

Following from behind, Guzma spotted the source of the calls: a man about Witt's age, who he recognized as a neighbor and resident on the island. The man was of slighter size but firmer muscle than his father, and darker-skinned since he worked in the sun for a living as a contractor. He sat at a corner booth, beckoning them with a wave, and wore a bright yellow shirt, a wispy combover, and an obnoxious, flashy grin. It took a second of flipping through his memory to recall his name: Emmett. That's right. Guzma knew his kids slightly better than the man himself, though they were never his companions (or, to their credit, his adversaries).

As far as Guzma knew, Emmett did not have his father's pitfalls: he lacked a temper, and had a wife and two children who didn't speak a word against him. He was a cheerful fellow, a happy drunk, the sort kids liked to tease and torment, hoping to someday get a rise out of him (they never did; he was thoroughly unflappable).

Seeing as the two men had so many differences, tourists might question why Witt and Emmett drank together so habitually. But Alolans understood: _you can't be choosy on the islands._ They visited the bar on the same nights at the same time, and so, what else can you expect?

"You got company, Mack?"

Just when Guzma realized 'Mack' was a nickname for his father, Emmett made a realization of his own.

"Ho-ly crap." Emmett screwed up his face at them both, examined Guzma a second longer, and yelped, "Is this your boy?" He pushed aside his beer, hobbled quickly to his feet, and marvelled at the sight.

"He's not staying long," Witt answered non-committally, showing no enthusiasm.

His stony manner didn't seem to dampen Emmett's thrill: the man hooted and whistled as he addressed Guzma. "Aw, shoot, look at you! Shot up like bamboo! I still remember you as yea high!" He held out his hand flat at just below waist level, to demonstrate. He then laughed jovially at Guzma's sudden flush of embarrassment. "Back in your home-town to throw your weight around, huh?"

Guzma wondered if he was expected to answer. He opened his mouth to respond blandly, but as it turned out, Emmett wasn't done rambling, and staggered to Witt's side to bray at him.

"Nothing like having one of your grown ones under your roof again! It's a real riot, huh, brother? At least they can drink with you!" Without giving Witt proper warning, he swung a friendly arm about his neck, hanging off of it and chuckling at his friend's annoyance. He lifted a hand to mock-whisper in Guzma's direction. "You should hear your old man; won't shut up about you. Ha-ha. We get sick of it around here: Guzma this, Guzma that."

For a satisfying flash of a moment, Guzma could see some vulnerability in his father's face―Witt knocked his friend in the ribs with his elbow, muttering darkly about him being a 'drunken idiot.'

"Ha-ha! C'mon! Sit! Not every day we have a local celebrity around to buy us drinks!"

"He sure can afford it," Witt added dryly.

Guzma bristled at first, but decided he could make worse use of his money. "Yeah… All right."

Emmett sat on one side of the booth. Guzma sat across from him, and Witt, calculating his options, gruffly told his son to move over. Guzma, surprised by his choice, nonetheless obliged. By the time they settled in and Emmett waved for someone to take their drink orders, the man's excitement had already alerted other patrons to Guzma's presence. Some had turned to look. Some clearly recognized him, and leaned to mutter in each other's ears. But no one bothered them.

The alcohol flowed. Glasses came full to the brim and left empty, pressed on by Emmett's easy chatter, his questions, his long-winded stories, his willingness to tell Guzma about every single resident of Mele'mele (how they fared, who married who, where they went). He was the sort of man you could sit and lose hours to, without much effort on your part. In time, he got to be more and more interested in Guzma's tales on hunting beasts in the wild―how strong are they really? They ever attack you? How long did it take to catch them? How close did he get to being snatched by police? Guzma, induced by beer and several shots of whiskey, slurred and bragged his answers cheerily, to the growing impatience of his father. Witt's willingness to live vicariously through Guzma ran out in his presence; seeing his son soak up such adoration made his instinctive attention-mongering flare up. He spent most of the conversation leering and sulking with jealousy, carefully following their talk in search of a weak-spot to attack.

The topic had changed to more recent matters; after quizzing him on his training routine, Emmett asked, "So, what's your record now? How many wins you up to?"

Guzma opened his mouth to answer, and his father interrupted.

"Can't count the battles you bungled this week," he said, eyes narrowing at him.

It took every ounce of self-control left in Guzma's drunken form to not smash the glass currently in his hand into his father's face; the surge of this violent desire actually frightened him. He let go of his glass, hand shaking a little. "I'd like to see you do better," Guzma shot back.

" _I_ don't have hellbeasts from space," his father said.

"They're not from _space,_ they're from, like, another dimension, and―"

"Alright, alright, _Professor_." His father waved his hands in a sarcastically distraught manner. "What I'm saying is, with what you got, it should be easy. And you still manage to mess it up."

Emmett, sensing the harsh turn in mood and feeling eager to change it around, jumped back in. He clucked. "C'mon, Mack! You were saying it was boring, when he won all the time..."

As his father turned to give Emmett a nasty look, a thought struck Guzma. He snorted a laugh of discovery. "You watch _all_ my matches?"

Witt read the accusation for exactly what it was, and floundered with suppressed frustration. "What else am I supposed to watch around here? The programming on these islands―"

But Guzma hollered and crowed loud enough for the entire bar to hear, "Man, what a sucky life you got, Witt! You must got _nothin'_ goin' on―!"

"...Quiet down, you idiot," his father hissed at him. Being called by his first name clearly irritated him―so Guzma, encouraged, sneered at him.

"Hurts, don't it, _Witt_? I make more money tossin' one battle than you do in a month―!"

Finally, his father snapped and banged a fist on the table, sweat crowning his forehead and letting loose some spittle. For the first time since coming home, Guzma saw a flashing glimpse of the rage he knew, frothy with booze and implied threat. "You _watch your mouth_!" In the ensuing silence and gawking from the rest of the room, he breathed heavily, voice crackling. "I don't care if you are grown; I'm your father, and you don't get to talk to me any kind of way!"

Guzma knew this pattern. This dance. It felt so natural to him: his father, goading and taunting him into responding; Guzma, eventually falling for it, returning the abuse by mouthing off; their passive-aggression bouncing back-and-forth until finally, Guzma makes a comment that hits a nerve; his father drawing a line in the sand. The next step to the dance was crucial, and painful either way. If Guzma spoke now, it meant a physical altercation. If he kept silent, it meant accepting his father's final word, swallowing the humiliation of defeat.

Guzma knew he could speak back and take on his father. He had done it before. He would probably win, too.

But the game they played… It was just so _stupid_ , and suddenly he couldn't remember how they got to be like this. He looked at his father―red-faced, tense, snarling―and thought, was this it? Everything he grew up being afraid of… Somehow, all the tension he had bunched up inside himself and saved for this encounter unravelled.

His father wanted a fight. So Guzma broke the rules. He lowered his voice, calmed, and said, "Dad."

"What!?"

Guzma gave him a sturdy, unshaken look. "Dad, listen. I'm sorry."

"Well―!" Witt still had his voice tightly wound up at a high decibel, but it strangled itself there. He looked confused and lost, as if Guzma had opened his mouth and spoken in a foreign language; he certainly didn't look like he knew how to answer it. He broke eye contact, still shaking and hot with anger. "Fine. Whatever," he eventually said, pouting and pushing his arms up on the table. He groped for his beer and didn't say anything else.

...Emmett, who had sat there the entire time, stupefied, at last let out a beastly heave of a sigh, collapsing forward and splaying himself over the table. "Aye! You two!"

(The rest of the bar uncomfortably shifted their eyes away).

He laughed to relieve the remaining tension. "Giving me a heart attack over here! About to get us booted, you know!"

As it turned out, Emmett guessed right: the bartender approached their table and informed them that they were drunk enough and needed to settle their tab and take their "family drama outside."

Guzma's father grumbled that they were "leaving anyway," and Guzma peacefully made the payment.

* * *

By the time they emerged from the bar, night had fully descended on the island, bathing its surface in milky moonlight that made visible every blade of grass. In the bright dark, Emmett said his goodbyes before trundling down the opposite path, and Guzma and his father wordlessly began their own trek home. The cool air soothed their senses, and for a while at least, it seemed to calm the simmering undercurrent that threatened to break open at any second.

Guzma continued to walk behind his father, taking short and uncertain steps to fight the teetering that had started since his last few drinks. Despite the clarity of the evening light, everything before him blurred, so that when he spotted the glowing eyes of his house at the top of the hill, they pulsed like a distant star. He watched the house intently, and he nearly walked right into his father as a result.

The man had stopped in the middle of the dirt path, the house a little ways ahead, and turned to face Guzma.

The posturing was clear. Guzma contemplated walking around him, avoiding the conflict altogether, but as suddenly as anything, his heart turned cold, like it had been doused in ice water, and he knew what he wanted to say.

His father started, though, by crossing his arms. "Guzma."

"What?" he asked. He tracked his eyes out over the deep blue horizon.

"Don't play dumb. We're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

His father snorted. "What is it you want, huh? Following me around―lurking around the house like you own the place―You only ever come around here when you want something, so what is it?"

"I wanted to see my folks. Before I get married."

" _Are_ you getting married?" Witt stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at him with a penetrating gaze. When Guzma feigned confusion, he said, "Most people getting married don't try to move back in with their parents."

"I am _not_ ―"

"Guzma. Why don't you cut the crap?"

"You wanna know? Fine." (Guzma didn't know. But he had to make up something―some excuse to hide his frailty.) "I'm here to tell you that I ain't nothin' like you."

"...Mm-hmm." His father sounded wildly unimpressed. He lowered his eyebrows and drawled dryly, "Could've just made that a phone call."

"I'm serious!" He swallowed a slick of bile. "We're― we're gonna have kids. I'm gonna be a father―"

"...Lord. That ought to be a laugh."

"At least I won't be a drunk prick!"

Guzma's father burst out into a hard, mocking laugh. "Boy, you're drunk right now."

"I'm gonna stop. I'm gonna stop drinking―"

"You know? I used to feed the same bull to my father. All the ways I was gonna be different..." He shook his head. "Then reality hits. You'll see. When you have kids, you'll start appreciating what you got."

"What do I have to appreciate about _you_!?"

"So I was a little hard on you!" his father griped. "But you turned out alright, didn't you?"

Guzma could no longer contain it; he snagged a clump of his own hair and screamed violently. "A 'little hard' on me!? ' _Alright'_?!"

His father didn't flinch, but rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Here we go," as if he had heard this a million times.

"You ain't got no idea―! You don't know, don't know what my life's been like 'cause of you―!"

"Oh, I _know_ ," his father returned hatefully. "I get it. Everything's always my fault, Guzma. Every time you screw your life up―it's somehow my..."

"I'm not saying―!" Guzma ground his teeth and tousled his hair irritably with one hand. "Would you just listen! I'm saying you kinda sucked! Can't you admit that!?"

The clumsy phrasing made his father reel for a second, then shake his head in a gesture of exasperation. "When have I ever said I was perfect, huh?" (There was his game again-swinging Guzma's words against walls, knocking them into distorted shape. Sidestepping every honest accusation.) "You won't ever hear me say I was a perfect father―"

"Nobody asked you to be perfect!" Bravery in the form of brashness let him speak without self-censorship: "What kinda person sends their kid to school with a black eye, huh?"

"Look..." His father was clearly rattled that he had laid out the unsaid thing; he lifted his hands and hesitated, unsure at first of how to respond. Finally, he waffled, "With everything that was going on with your mother―"

" _Don't_!" Guzma spat at seeing his cowardice. "Don't try to blame this on her!"

"I did the best I could. What else was I _supposed_ to do!"

"You―!"

Everything flowed through him then, like a bolt of lightning: Every blow. Every kick, slap, shove, squeeze, and punch. Every cutting remark, every belittling comment, every bit of hurtful sarcasm that mocked his inability to take it; everything his father did or said that was meant to remind him of how small, useless, and pathetic he was. Every lame excuse his father ever employed, to exonerate himself of any and all failings―

 _What are you complaining about? Don't I…?_

 _Well, if_ ** _you_** _didn't―_

 _You don't know how tough it is for me―_

 _If you don't like it why don't you..._

And when Guzma remembered those excuses, and how they took on new life later, devouring him in a patrol car over and over, ensnaring him in a seemingly endless, nightmarish cycle of promises, half-truths, betrayals, and false apologies―he now let the words crash outward in gnarled fashion.

"You were _supposed_ to take care of me!"

When his father looked at him then, he saw indignation and offense, pure and unguarded. The affront he had just levied darkened his father's face, until he puffed up his chest and practically screamed at him.

" _What_ are you _talking_ about!" He threw his arms out to his sides, crushing his fingers into taut fists. "You ever go hungry? Didn't you have a roof over your head? Clothes on your back? I worked every day to provide for you-and what, you wanna cry that I didn't hug you enough or something!?"

"He could tell," Guzma said. Dizziness and nausea hit him, almost knocking him off his feet. The night sky whirled, stars and all, and a trembling enveloped his voice. "He could tell you weren't taking care of us!"

But his father couldn't follow his leap in logic and he growled for not understanding. "What? _He_? Who are you―?"

"Daturo."

"Daturo?" Witt sneered hatefully. "What do I care! He needed to mind his own business!"

"It's why he―" (Guzma couldn't breathe now; his words kept latching to the inside of his throat; his chest and eyes burned; hysterical, terrified, wrathful laughter bubbled up inside his lungs, under it shook every syllable he spoke; he thinks he's sobbing, between the hitched laughter and drunken slurring, but his face is so raw and numb that he can't tell for sure.) "It's why he hung around―you know―'cause he knew you didn't care―'cause you were too chicken to ever tell him off―"

His father, seeing his visible distress, frowned. "What's the matter with you! How drunk are you!"

Guzma laughed-a long, exhausted, vindictive laugh. "While you were out getting wasted every night―what do you think he was doing with Mom?"

Because this was more an attack on Witt's manhood than his mother's virtue, his father actually responded with a peak of rage. His eyebrows snarled together; he stumbled forward, until he practically oozed breath into Guzma's face. He roared, "You shut up!"

The two had not laid hands on one another―not since the fight that left one hospitalized and the other running from Mele'mele. It wasn't that they had promised each other anything. It was more that they felt something had been accomplished in their last explosive confrontation. They had threatened―but never followed through, not in almost seven years.

Guzma's father now stood inches from him, broad and full of potential violence.

And something... imploded in him, like a breakwater crumbling into the maw of the sea, and he pushed his father roughly, grabbing him by the shirt and sending him stumbling backward. His father was surprised, but the surprise soon meant nothing, because Guzma began to yell, and laugh, and blubber: "Well it don't matter, pops, it don't matter, 'cause―! He didn't even like her, he didn't want _her_ , y'know! He only wanted me!"

...Couldn't see his father's face, not through the fog of his anger, but there was silence, and in it, Guzma threw himself forward again, tackling and pushing him another foot backwards.

"Don't you know anything!? Are you really that stupid!?" Guzma's voice started to go hoarse from screaming. "A grown man― and a little kid, like that― You that dumb?" He spewed one last, vile scoff before twisting the knife: "He couldn't keep his hands off me―and you didn't even notice!"

* * *

The next sensation Guzma felt was his body being pulverized by a solid force banging into him, and being sent flying backward, until his spine crunched against the rocky soil. The shove took him completely by surprise, and therefore effectively toppled him over before he could regain his footing. He gasped, the wind knocked from his lungs, and for what must have been a solid minute, he lay there on the ground, facing the deep blue sky, all its mingling lights, all its cloudless, crystalline surface. Without any passing breeze, the only sound that he could hear was his father's ragged breathing, which moved back and forth as he paced closer and farther away.

" _Sick_." His father's voice shook with a throaty blend of grief, rage, and fear. "You're―! You're some kinda sicko―! You're a sick―! Freak―!"

Guzma had no more anger in him. He rolled onto his chest, pushed himself up, and moving purely on gravity and habit, lunged for his father, snagging and wailing on him and grappling his body.

The fight did not go as it did when he was fifteen; too many factors had changed. For one, though he had grown larger and stronger since then, his father, too, had grown in physical size. The man had heft, like a brick wall, and as much as Guzma pushed and rammed into him, he couldn't make him lose footing. As for another, his father wasn't caught by surprise this time, and so could block, yank, and bludgeon him, too.

Both of them were drunk, adding to their lack of swiftness. To them, the fight was a series of twisted slugs, gasps for breath, and groans of impact. But any outside observer would call it a rather pathetic, clumsy display of testosterone-driven flailing-about. In the midst of their tearing each other's shirts, bloodying each other's faces, bruising their ribs, and cussing madly, neither of them made headway enough to claim victory. So they continued tousling, attempting to twist the other into a headlock or onto the ground.

Minutes―minutes adding up to an agonizingly long, hot, alcohol-soaked wrestling match, trickling with sweat, snot, and spit. They might have stayed locked in battle all night, if the yelling hadn't roused the only resident of the house uphill, and the screen door hadn't snapped shut, followed by Guzma's mother screaming at them.

"What are you doing!"

They didn't answer, but continued kicking, punching, and snarling.

"Stop! Stop it!"

She circled around them helplessly, then laid her hands on any limb that flew close to her, hoping to unwind them. Guzma's arm first-which he snapped away from her. Then his father's shoulder, which, too, pulled back into the fray.

"What's the matter with you both! Stop! _Stop_!"

It was as if she didn't exist. So while they continued, she ran uphill, entered the house, and a minute later emerged again with something in hand. The two didn't pay attention, and were thus caught completely off guard when she started clobbering them with a broad baking pan―clanging it against their backs and heads with loud, metallic peals like thunderclaps. The noise as much as the pain startled them into untangling, and panting desperately, she wedged herself between them.

"Stop it! Please, stop it!"

They stood stupidly, wavering and licking their split lips. She saw first her husband's bloody nose and torn shirt, and without thinking, turned to Guzma, barely holding back tears.

"Why do you do this to us?"

Guzma, still heaving from exertion, almost responded. He wanted, more than anything, than to call her out for her ignorance and weakness. She was as guilty as him, he thought.

Then, through the red, he saw how they looked at him: like he was nothing, like he was a stranger, an animal. He took a frightened step back. Their expressions remained. Cold. Black-and-blue. Wishing, he realized, that he would have mercy on them and cease to exist.

Spooked, he stumbled around them and ran up the hill, past the house and toward the back-roads. He didn't look back, even as his mother called out his name― when his father, mouth gummed from bruising, called after him, too―

* * *

It wasn't fair, he thought, trailing along the rocky paths under the gleam of moonlight. He didn't choose his parents. Those two celestial bodies, moving in the all the known universe, and they chose to collide together―with all their unhappiness. Yes, yes, that's how he felt: like the product of two smashed objects, their faults and vices and weaknesses and traumas, amalgamated. Guzma inherited his mother's weakness; father crushed his weakness; he crushed himself; he crushed his father and mother; they crushed one another: and around, and around, and around they went. He was caught, he felt, in their orbit: spinning and destroying―and being destroyed―forever in a loop, never to truly escape.

Run...?

Where could ever run?

Where could he ever go, and the beasts not smell the steepness of his unhappiness, hunting him down?

What path could he take, and not end up in the same place, again and again?

And with that thought, on old instinct, his feet carried him far to the north side of the island, up to Lover's Leap.

Someone told him―he couldn't remember, but it was probably a classmate who liked to tell macabre stories―that the place was called "Lover's Leap" because once, many years ago, a distraught woman threw herself off the edge and down into the ocean below. He doubted, now, that the story held any truth; he never heard any adult confirm or even allude to it. But it plucked something in his untapped poetic side, and so by the time he was seven, he found the place and claimed it as his own. It became his sacred place.

He always had to be careful not to be seen as he climbed down to reach it; he would look carefully around before hopping over the fence meant to deter children, searching the narrow edges of the cliff with his feet, and finding a small, mossy precipice that dangled precariously over the boulders in the shallows far below. He would lay flat on his stomach on the narrow rock, resting his head just over the edge, and watch the breaker waves for hours―the way they sucked in force, roared, punished the cliff-side with foamy fists, then shrink back, melting and uncovering the scraggly teeth of rock. In the night, each wave looked like a long, wet tongue as black as oil, and would pound the cliff so hard that he could feel the entire island shake against his thumping chest.

He would think a lot, as he gripped his hands on the precipice, about the mythical girl, and her body, how it must have fallen as the wave rolled back, how the teeth ground and crushed her before the tongue swooped in and swallowed her up.

The ledge was smaller than he remembered. He was able to straddle it now with his legs, lean over with his fingers braced on the rock.

He felt both the lulling call of gravity―its needy groping, tugging, urging as he shifted his weight closer to the edge―and a weightlessness in his dangling legs, as if at any moment he might float from Lover's Leap and into the course of the wind pushing its way up the cliffside. The breeze, at its strongest, spiralled like a tornado of mist into him, splashing him in cold air; it flapped his jacket and blew about his hair. After some time, his extremities and face went numb from it, and all noise was muted by the whirling and raging froth of water and wind, adding to the sensation of floating in nothing.

His head swirled like a galaxy. The rock sat firm under him, but its hold on him felt tenuous. Foam dispersed and broke over the cliffside like shining starlight in the blackness; the tongue fell, and the water sank again, breaking apart into white, snake-like threads, crawling away between the broken stones as they faded.

Breathe in, breathe out. Cold air filled his lungs until it hurt―until it no longer hurt.

"I'm tired," he said, to no one in particular. His voice got carried by the wind so quickly, he wasn't even sure he managed to say it. "I'm so tired of―"

Guzma stopped.

How had She known…? How did She know what he was going to do…? She wasn't even here, and she still danced in his head, psychoanalyzing him from afar. She could pick him apart… Read his viscera… He felt the pressure in his temples of all of them, the residents of his memories, tangling up in his brain like fishing line. If he could squeeze his head, pop it like a cork from a bottle, letting the blight go and relieving the pain...

* * *

Someone was calling to him. The voice was so faint―far away, or mixed with the wind, maybe both. But it persisted and grew louder, until some twenty feet above his head, he heard his mother.

"Guzma!"

He didn't turn toward her.

Her voice drifted in and out, as she turned around to cry out her discovery. "I found him―Guzma!―he's over here…!" As she approached, her voice lowered to a conversational tone. "You shouldn't sit there. It's dangerous," she said. "You could fall. Come back this way."

"All I ever…" Guzma stopped a second to think over his phrasing. "When have I ever done anything any good?"

She didn't answer―or couldn't? Or wouldn't?―but she pressed against the fence and pushed her arms out for him, like an infant groping the air. "Come here," she whispered, choked with desperation. "Please, please, come this way."

Up at the top of the cliffside, Guzma's father finally caught up. He was short on breath and silently looked over his wife's shoulder, spotting his son immediately.

When Witt didn't comment on the predicament, Malia panicked and spoke. "I don't know what's wrong. He's not listening."

Witt continued to watch him carefully, thinking to himself.

"I'm getting help."

"Don't be an idiot," Witt said, carelessly. He gestured at Guzma. "He's drunk. He doesn't know what he's doing."

"But―"

"Listen to me! What'll they do! They'll lock him up, that's what!" He pawed at the wooden planks of the fence, unsure of how to navigate his doughy body over it. He huffed, and decided to duck between the two interior planks. He pushed his way through clumsily, muttering to himself as he did. "...Not going… to send my son to no psych ward."

"Oh my god."

"Malia, stay there. Don't move."

As he straightened himself on the other side, she reached out to him, clinging to his arm for a second, letting out another sob. "Please, please don't let my baby―"

"Malia. Stop." He shrugged off her hold and cursed at her, and she in turn clung like death to the fence post, watching him stiffly stagger his way to the cliffside.

It was dry and sandy rock, easy to keep a foothold on, and the cliffside was scraggly enough to always have a rock, crevice, or shelf to hold onto with your fingers. The platforms were small, but wide enough to comfortably stand on as an adult; the biggest risk was swinging your body to wrong direction, losing your balance, and letting your center of gravity throw you over the edge. Normally, such a climb wouldn't pose a problem, even for an inflexible middle-aged man such as himself. But he was tipsy from liquor and fighting, so it took himself fifteen minutes to safely work himself downward. Rubble hissed and scattered under his feet, bouncing down into the water below; wind blew and disoriented him. But in time, he reached the precipice.

Guzma didn't turn around, but he knew it was his father. It had the heft of his steps, his breathing.

"Just push me," Guzma sobbed. He didn't care anymore, how stupid he must sound. He pushed his face into his arm. "Just get it over with."

His father stooped down, huffing now from strain, slipped his arms under Guzma's and started to pull. He was nowhere near strong enough to lift his son, but he was able to drag him a little ways, successfully pulling both his legs safely back onto the rock. Guzma didn't pass out-not really-but he fell limp, silent, passive, quelled even of his weeping, and with the sudden weight of his collapse, his father could only manage to hoist him close to the cliff-face and lean him against it before running out of breath again.

"Ugh. When did you eat cement today?" his father wheezed. He gripped his knees, panted, and glanced loathingly at the narrow path back up to the island. He began pulling on Guzma's jacket, tugging on his shoulders. "Guzma. You're going to have to walk."

Guzma nudged his legs forward, flattening his feet on the ground as if getting ready. But after a few seconds of strain, he stopped again.

"Come on. Up you go―" All his father's coaxing and pulling did not move him. Frustration creeped into Witt's voice. "...Great. Well…" He sighed and straightened his back. "If you aren't going to walk, somebody's got to carry you, and it can't be me." Saying that aloud triggered a thought that formulated into a plan. He leaned over and pulled back the front of Guzma's coat, groping around his waist. At first, Guzma had enough fight in him to grab at his father's hands and resist, but Witt fairly easily unwound his grip. "Quit fussing, will you! Do you have your pokemon on you?" Before Guzma could answer, his father succeeded in finding the belt and adjusted it forward. "Here! Who do you have?"

Guzma limply put his hand to his belt.

"I'm not asking you run a marathon," his father continued impatiently. "Just show me which one can carry you."

At last, Guzma's hand lingered, and then, as his fingers traced the pokeballs, he clinched onto one in particular. His father scooped beneath his grip and took it from him.

He mumbled under his breath, "Betting I'm gonna regret this," and released the pokemon out onto the narrow path.

* * *

The moment Golisopod emerged, it balanced itself on the rock outcropping, chittered curiously, spotted Guzma and his father, and broke into a loud, enraged roar. Guzma's mother screamed overhead, and the creature practically bounced forward, landing with an earth-shattering thud on a platform just above them, raining them both in a shower of gravel.

Witt sputtered, spread his legs to steady himself, and shielded his face from the spray of grit. He leaned over Guzma's incapacitated form as he quickly tried to talk it down. "Hey! Easy!"

Golisopod crouched low, its shadow casting over the two of them. Its breath rattled; its armor-like scales ground together like sawing bone, producing a low, grating growl.

"You remember me, don't you," his father said, too tired to be genuinely afraid.

Golisopod kept its blank eyes on him and continued snarling.

"I remember you, too." He bent down again, pressing his fingers into the back of Guzma's jacket. He pulled on him a little, demonstrating his weight. "He's too heavy for me."

Suddenly, the creature went quiet with contemplation, like it was readjusting its thought process. It dipped its head, giving its master a closer look, then looked again at the father.

"Don't take all night thinking about it." He started to hoist Guzma up by his arms, thinking he might be able to ease the body into Golisopod's grip, but seeing the grab riled it all over again, causing it to screech and chuff threateningly at him. "All right! All right!" He dropped him and gripped the cliff-side instead.

In only a few, swift, powerful motions, Golisopod reached down, scooped Guzma up into one of its claws, and after eyeing its surroundings and identifying its goal, used its opposite claw to slam into the rock wall, dragging itself safely forward to climb up the path. In fact, it took only a brief minute for it to clamber its way back up to solid ground, where it stood facing its master's mother. Malia, despite her fear, raced forward to confirm Guzma's safety, and after pawing his face for a moment, she craned her neck to again look down the path.

"Witt."

Golisopod twitched an antennae at her.

She hesitated; she had never addressed anything so dangerous and imposing, its eyes black and sharp as glass, its breathing like the hollow rumbling of an oil drum. "My husband," she said, then lost her nerve.

It stared at her, like it hoped to absorb her every vibration. Guzma had already started to writhe a bit, as he started to awaken from his daze, and his mother leaned over the fence to catch of him what she could, so Golisopod rather unceremoniously lifted him over the fence, dropped him on the ground (to his mother's shout of surprise), and turned toward the cliff again. Under the gleam of moon and stars, its shell sparkled with faint iridescence, and it meditated for a long second, claws and teeth clicking together with thought.

It jumped down. A short few minutes later, it reappeared with Guzma's father, who was not carried but dragged from behind, as he clung reluctantly and uncomfortably to one of its upturned scales.

* * *

When Guzma awoke in his bed, the window open, the insects residing in the berry fields singing, he jerked, momentarily forgetting how he had gotten there. A deep darkness covered the room, save for a slim path of light cutting in from the window; as his eyes adjusted to the shadow that cut across his bed and bedside wall, he noted a rhythmic dance being silhouetted. He forced his heavy head to fall to its side and look into the window, and there he saw his Golisopod's head resting on the windowsill again, its two antennae bouncing back-and-forth as it kept its gaze on him. Guzma shifted, about to speak to it, and a murky, formerly-unseen shape in his room moved.

Startled, he threw off his covers and sat up.

His father, seated in his desk chair, lifted a hand. "It's all right," Witt said, nerves clearly shot. "It's just me."

"What are you…" Guzma blinked slowly at him. The features of his face, now puffy and red, began to clear up in the shadows.

"...I thought I'd check on you." Slumping over, he squeezed his wrists and hands, allowing quiet to fall back over the room. He staunchly avoided eye contact, instead keeping his face to the floor. Golisopod whistled once, and Witt cast a quick look at it before turning away. Heavy breaths weighed on his shoulders, making him appear like a hunched gargoyle.

His father spoke again, voice dim.

"Look. What you were doing out there… I'm not gonna ask what you were thinking. You're a grown man now, and… You shouldn't have to explain anything to me." In the ensuing silence, there came the sound of his father digging his fingers into the fabric at his knees. He uttered sourly, "I woulda killed him."

Guzma shut his eyes and winced. "...Dad. _Shut up_."

But his father was both too drunk and too upset to stop rambling. "When did he start messing with you, anyway? Why didn't you tell me? I woulda knocked him dead―wouldn't matter who saw me, by the bright of day―"

Guzma lost his patience and hissed at him. "Why do you say stupid stuff that doesn't matter!"

The chiding only managed to quiet his father momentarily. The man fidgeted in his seat, doing his best to contain himself, but ended up awkwardly mumbling, "Anyway… It's not as if… Well, you're still normal, so… I mean, you are, right?"

"Huh?"

"You're _normal_ ," his father repeated, voice insistent and a little pleading.

It took him only a few seconds to understand what his father meant, and a few more for him to truly appreciate how unfathomably stupid it was to say. Under normal circumstances, Guzma would have reamed him out and cursed at his idiocy, but he was so mentally exhausted, that all he could muster was a very, very seething and cold expression. " _I like girls_."

His father nearly catapulted out of his chair. "I―I know that! I know that, it's just, I didn't know if―" He rubbed his head and stopped mid-sentence, realizing he had embarrassed himself enough. "No... forget I said anything."

 _Gladly_.

"I know you won't ever―" His father inhales sharply and cut himself off. He edges too close to truth, to reality. "That's alright. You don't have to."

His father weaves fingers over his own bruised knuckles, pressing the flesh in circles. He hasn't changed his shirt, so the neck of it is still shredded open, exposing the skin at his chest, and a faint spray of blood stained the fabric. When he speaks then, he still won't look up, and his voice is gravelly, hard, and mixed up, like discordant music.

"I doubt you remember this―you were, what, a first grader? Anyway, you were little. I dunno when it started―you would come home crying, saying you were hungry. We thought, well he's not eating his lunch―but we'd open your lunchbox, and it was empty. I thought you were bullied or something. Your mother took you to a doctor―you know how she gets―packed you extra food, thought she was starving you. I finally got sick of it, and told the teacher to watch you during lunch, figure out what's going on―and you know what? She told me: these other kids would walk up to you, and they'd ask―ask!―for your food. Point at what they wanted, you know, say, can I have that? Can I have that? They didn't even have to threaten you or ask very hard. You would just hand it over, and by the time a couple kids were through with you, you had nothing left.

"When I heard that―I thought―lord, this kid… The world's gonna chew him up and spit him out." His father starts to laugh, not cruelly, but hollowly, sadly, as if remembering something else. He presses his fingers hard into his forehead, twisting and pinching at some source of pain. He sighs, and mutters, "Maybe..." He stopped there and descended into silence, into a dark place, like he's shut a door and locked it tight. In that moment, Guzma wondered if that was it, and those would be the last words he'd ever hear from him.

Guzma sees it unfolding, these lessons from his father: this is what means to be grown up, he thinks. It means loving someone who hurts you. It means having people count on you, and you failing them, over and over. It means crushing your children as you were once crushed. It means always being alone.

His heart opens a little. He doesn't know what to call it, exactly, the tiny thread of emotion that squeezed its way through, and he's afraid to call it what he suspects it is, so he keeps it nameless: a small, twirling, unspeakable thing, blood-colored and frail.

"...You'd better get some sleep, huh. I'll leave you to it."

A sound of pain escapes his father's throat as he gets up; he winces, huffs, and hides a limp on his way out.

* * *

When his father shut the door, he almost threw himself out of bed. He searched with his hand to the floor, and eventually found the unopened envelope. He drew it up, snapped on a desk lamp, and shredded it open. His head hammered and his eyes watered, and he was almost too dizzy to read it, but he held the paper in his hands until his vision and hands steadied.

The letter didn't contain what he thought it would. There were no apologies, excuses, nor were there pleas, or commands.

Instead, in ink hand-writing inscribed on paper, the shape of the letters bent with pain or anger (he couldn't tell), She had copied the verses of a poem, leaving them without commentary:

.

My eyes in vain scan round the hills beyond

From south to northerly, from dusk to dawn.

I look throughout in this immensity,

And say, "There is no happiness for me."

.

What good are they, thatch hut, palace and dells,

Empty places from which no charm still dwells?

Rivers, forests, stones and solitude rare,

Just one person missing leaves the world bare.

.

So far as I can see, the whole wide earth

Leaves me but emptiness and void desert;

I want nothing of all the world and clime,

Nothing at all until the end of time.

.

Would that the god of Sun take me to where

You dwell, object of love with you I share.

Why should I tarry in earthly exile?

Nothing to share on this my desert isle.

.

And when the leaves fall down on the prairies

To be flown off the vale by evening breeze,

Just as a wilted leaf I'll be forlorn.

O, northerly, take me with you, windborne.


	20. Trouble

**Chapter 20: Trouble**

* * *

By the time Nanu reached the Po Town police station, the rain had started to let up. In both of his arms, he carried bags of groceries―nothing fancy, just the bare necessities to get him through the first day or two after a long time away; the time he spent on Mele'mele proved troublesome, hardly satisfactory, and now he hoped to do nothing more than stow his food, kick up his feet, watch some television with a purring…

Nanu stopped on the path, feeling the cold spray of moisture hitting his back.

The door to the station was ajar; he could hear the sounds of laughter and broken glass.

"―What in the Sam Hill?"

A dark thought crossed his mind, and his lip curled.

"Of all the days," he grumbled aloud, voice crackling, "they had to pick today."

Nanu began his approach, keeping his steps soft and steady. He avoided the crunching gravel, weaved his way through the rain-speckled grass, and reached the doorstep without alerting anyone inside to his presence. He paused to listen. Of the intermittent speech, he could understand very little, but he identified at least four unique voices, possibly more. He quietly set his groceries down at the bottom of the steps, positioned himself before the doorway, cleared his throat, and let his voice boom. "Saved me the trouble of tracking you down, did you?"

All at once, a frightful clamor of voices, breakage, and footfalls erupted from inside. Through several shouts, one cried out more clearly: " _Run_!"

Nanu planted his feet, eyes on the doorway. He sucked in a breath, readied his hands… Ready… Ready… And…

The first two to spring through the door were boys, teenagers, fit and lively, so that when he tried to pin them at the doorway with his frame, they effortlessly slipped through― the first ducking under the arm, and the other, of whom Nanu briefly snagged his shirt, was able to fly out of Nanu's grip by sheer force. Off they went, scurrying down the road; Nanu turned back for the door, not discouraged.

He managed to grab a girl's arm next, and might have been able to restrain her, if the next two children hadn't collided with him hard in their egress, knocking her from his hold. He cursed, flew his arms at the crazy huddle of heads, scarves, and arms, and cursed again at watching the three run off unimpeded. Nanu, panting, watched them skip and hoot their way back to Po Town.

"Don't let me see you 'round here again!" he hollered at them, between wearied gasps for breath (he was getting too old for this, he realized). "Friggin' pests. What'd they do…"

When Nanu turned to examine the interior of the station, he faced a surprise.

One, lonely, straggling boy, who reached the door in time to catch Nanu's attention, feebly attempted a similar escape to his peers'. He ducked―and the ex-officer, easily thwarting him, swung his arm hard against the kid's stomach, scooping him up against his hip.

"Hey!"

The boy squealed and pumped his feet in the air helplessly; Nanu, not even addressing him, entered the station. The entire place lay in complete disarray. Nearly every object had been knocked from the counters and tables, left smashed on the floor. Beer bottles and cigarettes littered the tile. Nearly every wall had been covered in spray paint, every cupboard emptied and trashed, every food bowl for his Meowth upturned so that kibble crunched under his feet. The Meowth themselves he nearly thought were gone―probably spooked right out the door, he thought―but after a few seconds of glowering at the scene, he spotted a few pairs of eyes peeking out from behind and underneath furniture. A few troopers, holding down the fort.

Nanu absorbed the destruction and insolence expressed in his ruined home. And though a significant part of him burned with righteous anger, he couldn't avoid a pang of devastation in seeing how completely they had tossed the place.

"Aw, hey! Gramps! Pu'mme down!"

Nanu paced forward, past the waiting area, and tossed the kid to the floor with a blunt thud.

The sprawling, lanky creature that untangled itself at his feet looked to be no more than twelve, maybe pushing thirteen―probably some new idiot recruit, who didn't know any better and had been dragged along by some idiot friends. Whoever he was, his scarf had fallen from his head in the scuffle, revealing a dumb, round-faced, dopey look about him.

"Get up," Nanu snapped at the kid, rage building in his tone. When the boy didn't move quick enough for Nanu's taste, he impatiently smacked the kid atop the head―not too hard, just enough to make the boy cry out in surprise. "Get! Up!"

The boy grunted and pushed up to his feet, muttering curse words that would make a sailor blush.

Nanu shoved a finger in his face. "Alright, brat! Lemme explain something to you! You can trash Po Town all you like!" He suddenly snatched and shook him violently by the shoulders. "But haven't you dummies ever heard of 'sacred ground'? Because this here's the definition, punk!"

The boy, puffing out his chest, decided not to grovel for mercy. He leaned over and spat a thick glob of saliva onto the floor. "Yeah? Whaddaya gonna do about it?"

...Any other day, he'd cuff the kid and send him on his way, threatening to do much worse if he ever saw him again. But today, Nanu had no patience: he had no energy left with which to repress his anger. Nanu yanked the boy up by the arm. "Put you over my knee, for starters!"

"I ain't afraid o' you, geezer!"

"Yeah? You're a real brave one, huh?" Nanu fumed and pulled him toward the back of the station. "Let's see how long your brave face lasts, huh?"

"Ow-w! Lemme go!"

Nanu dragged him over to his wardrobe, where he started digging through his trousers. "―Where'd I put that thing? Is it hanging on the―?"

The boy must've deduced what he was looking for, because he began floundering. "Pops!" the kid whined, starting to blubber and squeak. "Aw, c'mon pops! You can't do that, pops! It ain't right! It ain't legal! Promise I won't bother you no more, pops!"

"Eh, must be―ah, there it is." He unlooped the belt and began pushing the boy back in the direction of the sofa. "C'mon kid, it's time to put your brave face back on."

The kid sobbed and dug in his heels. "I'm sorry! I'll clean yo' joint up! I'll pay you back! Honest!" He snivelled and wiped his face with his forearm. "I'm tellin' the truth, pops, a hun'ned percent!"

"―Criminy, boy, I haven't even whupped you yet, and you're already givin' me a headache."

"Aw, please!"

* * *

Nanu had forgotten to shut the door behind him, a mistake he immediately paid for: before he had a chance to exact his wrath, Gladion, without asking permission, broached the doorway and knocked on the panel to make his presence known amidst their arguing.

Nanu snapped to attention, then pulled a fiercely exasperated look at seeing him; the grunt, on the other hand, wilted and looked so tremendously relieved, that given the chance, he might have kissed Gladion's feet.

"L'il G! Aw, you came just in time― Help a homie out―!"

Gladion, though, first noticed the station's interior condition. "What happened?" He then saw Nanu holding the boy by the arm. "What's going on?"

Nanu shook the grunt quiet and spoke sharply. "Brats moved in. Trashed the place while I was out. The others ran, but I caught this one red-handed."

Gladion looked over the station in horror. He crossed his arms and shot the boy a stern glare. "What were you thinking?" He shook his head. "Officer Nanu deserves your respect."

The boy averted his eyes and twisted his foot on the floor.

"You should apologize."

"I did! I'm sorry, pops, really!"

Gladion kept his gaze steady on the boy. "Don't mistake my coming here for mercy. Plumeria will hear about this, and she's _already_ in a nasty mood." Gladion, satisfied, in turn gave Nanu an equally demanding look. "Let him go."

Nanu sneered but relented. "Hmph. Depriving me o' the simple joys in life." He released and shoved the whimpering kid in the direction of the door. "Get." Nanu, ignoring the boy's subsequent flight outside, began to kick aside the glass bottles lolling on his floor. He bitterly sighed and turned his frustration on Gladion. "Thanks for watching the place while I was away."

Gladion again glanced at the belt in his hand. Nanu, sensing his silent judgment, rolled his eyes and tossed it aside.

"I wasn't gonna really hit the kid. Just spook 'im, is all―"

"Kahuna Nanu," Gladion said. "I―need to talk to you. About Guzma… and my mother."

Nanu made a horrible, grizzled noise.

* * *

Nanu swiped some garbage off the sofa―just enough to give Gladion space to sit―and staggered first outside and then into the kitchen to put away his groceries.

Gladion. Nanu hadn't much contact with the kid, not before Guzma left, but as he became familiar with him, he could see a lot of Lusamine in him. That woman… Even after a long separation from her, Gladion reeked of her influence in everything from his seating posture―proper, upright, with legs together and hands folded―to his exacting speech. He tried so hard to be such a little adult.

Strange, then, that Gladion seemed to have settled in nicely with a role in Po Town. It spoke to Plumeria's great distress that she allowed the boy, whom she had previously disavowed as a snivelling brat, to become her primary muscle. The two did share a powerful disdain for Lusamine; maybe that was enough to form a bond.

He still didn't wear Team Skull gear, opting instead to remain in that black hoodie. Nanu took that as a sign of something.

The boy spoke, interrupting his thoughts. "You were on Mele'mele, weren't you?"

Nanu shoved the milk carton into his fridge, sighed again, and worked his way to his coffee percolator, which miraculously, though it had been knocked to floor, appeared not to be broken. "How you figure?"

"That's where Guzma was. His disappearance made the news―like everything he does now. You seemed to have left right when it happened."

"Yeah, yeah, all right, brilliant deduction an' all."

"But you saw him."

Nanu waved a hand affirmatively as he prepared a pot. "He didn't exactly run off into the mountains like last time. You want any?"

"No, thank you." Gladion watched him carefully, and eventually asked, "How was he?"

"You're a funny kid. If some jerk shacked up with my mother, I'd be lookin' the kill the guy, not ask after him."

The term 'shacked up' made Gladion cringe and redden. "He―" (He collected himself, pressing a hand to his face). "Despite everything, we have history. He took me seriously and gave me a chance to prove myself, when no one else would. I can't call us friends, but I do owe him _something_." He thought Nanu would have something to say on this―possibly something cynical―but the kahuna stayed quiet and plugged in his percolator. "I'm getting... conflicting reports about his disappearance."

"Hmm."

"Did he run? Did he.. Have second thoughts? Is that what it was?"

Nanu rubbed his eyes roughly and grimaced. "He might be gettin' hitched to your mother, but that does not mean I'm gonna air his dirty laundry to you."

"He…" Gladion stopped, blinked, and creased his eyebrows. "You can't mean he's still…"

"He took the shuttle back to Aether this morning."

Whatever color Gladion still had in his face vanished. "You're not serious."

"Saw him off myself," Nanu assured him, though he really meant that he watched from afar as Guzma made his stilted goodbyes to his parents.

"But…" The boy crossed his arms. "I don't understand. He got away. Why would he…"

"Who knows. He wasn't real forth-coming on his plans. But, far as I know, the wedding's happening right on schedule." He pointed to his desk. "I've got my ticket to ride."

The coffee brewed, gurgling hot water and steam. Gladion was apparently stunned enough to remain quiet for nearly a solid minute, eyes tracing the floor with troubled thought. Finally, he muttered. "That… idiot. I tried to warn him."

"Eh. He's gotta have his reasons."

Gladion looked shocked; he almost lost it. "'Reasons'? What reasons could he _possibly_ ―"

"Hey, I ain't saying he has any _good_ reasons. You know, not that it's _any_ of my business, but…" He sighed deeply, drawing himself a cup of coffee. "If you owe him so much, maybe you oughtta give him the benefit of the doubt, huh?"

The salience of Nanu's advice took Gladion aback.

Apparently tired of the conversation, Nanu pulled out his flask to spike his coffee. He paused and decided to be polite, proffering the flask to Gladion first.

"...You know I'm thirteen, right?"

Nanu shrugged. "Entrapment. Couldn't arrest you anyway."

"It's also early in the morning."

He tilted a generous serving into his coffee. "Hey, do I come to your place and knock your way of living? _Hrngh_ , my head." Meowth began to creep from out of their hiding places and swarm his legs, mewling hungry protests. He pushed them around with his foot. "Yeah, yeah. Gimme a minute. Cripes. Everybody wants a piece o' me this morning."

Gladion studied him. A few Meowth hopped up onto the table, and Nanu, grunting, hoisted the television from the floor. He positioned it back on the coffee table, cracked screen and all, and rubbed his back with a groan of complaint. Though Nanu searched for the cables necessary to get the device back in working order, he apparently gave up on the task for now, and cleared another spot on the couch to take a seat.

Finally, Gladion narrowed his eyes at him. "I have to admit, Kahuna Nanu… I've… wondered about you. I even looked you up."

Nanu snorted and went for his flask again. This needed another shot.

"A lot of your records were scrubbed. Especially your work with the International Police. But when you were a community officer, at least, you were called to disciplinary hearings―a lot. Excessive force. Bribery. Contraband. Extortion. Obstruction of justice. Conspiracy..."

"...Stop, I'm blushing."

Gladion looked to him sadly. "You weren't a good person, were you."

Nanu took a long time to absorb this accusation. It made him trace down a long set of unpleasant memories―ones he tried daily to push into the recesses and neglected corners of thought. All the cruel and thoughtless sins he had brought on those around him―in particular on those he confessed to love. He took a hard drink from his cup and finally said, "...I lied." (Gladion waited for some profound truth to come next). "I _was_ gonna whup that brat 'til Tuesday, if you hadn't shown up. Lucky devil." He gave Gladion a horrible, nasty grin. "I 'wasn't a good person'? What makes you assume I'm a good person now?"

"Tapu Bulu chose you to be Kahuna."

"The tapu… Don't know what they're doing. Read up on recent history, Scruffy… They've screwed things up before, and now… Choosing a wretch like me to protect anybody. Feh."

"But you still accepted the position. Is it penance…? Serving as kahuna, watching over Team Skull… And even Guzma…" When Nanu sighed and swigged his coffee, Gladion's expression brightened. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"You've got quite the imagination. What's your deal? Hassling an old man like this―"

Gladion tensed again. "Lillie still thinks Mother can be saved. I'm not so sure."

"Well, if you're looking to me as a case study, forget it. Some people… They're far gone." Nanu saw Gladion's face harden. He shook his head. "Why the long face? Most people who hate their mothers would take that as welcome news."

A thin, taut line of resistance pulled on Gladion's voice. "I don't hate her." He shrank back in his seat, and quieted. "I hate… what she's become. What she's chosen to do to others."

"That's fair." Nanu paused. "Do you love her?"

Gladion's face somehow simultaneously paled and flushed―a mix of childish vulnerability and self-aware, adult dread. But he couldn't rightly say the question was a surprise. He fixed his limbs tightly together against his body as he thought it over, and replied only, "She's my mother."

"Hmm." Nanu pressed the ends of his fingers into a Meowth's cheek, eliciting a loud, rumbling purr. "Love ain't always about deserving. You're awfully young to have figured that out." When he noticed Gladion's discomfort, he decided to nudge the conversation a bit. "So. On that note: what are your plans?"

"Plans?"

"With the wedding, and all. You goin'?"

Gladion answered quickly, looking horrified. "Absolutely not."

"I figured you weren't on the invite list. You could tag along with me."

"No, I mean―" Gladion frowned, confused by the offer, and amended, "I want no part of it."

"Conscientious objector, huh. Your loss, I guess. It's probably gonna be quite the gig."

As Nanu spoke, a tiny, electronic medley rang out from Gladion's pocket. Surprised, the boy drew out his phone and examined the call screen. He stood immediately upon seeing the name. "I have to go."

"Good. About time I get some peace and quiet around here."

The boy started to leave after answering the call; he put the phone to his head, and just as Gladion reached the doorway, Nanu overheard a brief quip of French from his lips. That alone told Nanu who was calling: when the two sibling conferred over the phone, especially when they wanted an additional layer of privacy, they always spoke in the language of their homeland.

(Nanu knew only enough to understand Gladion's opening question: "What is it?")

* * *

The remaining Meowth returned from outside, sensing that the trouble had passed, and came right on time for Nanu's sluggish feeding routine. He shuffled to the back, pulled out the hefty bag of animal feed, and occasionally swiped away a nagging feline face. He filled bowls, set them on the floor, and surveyed the group.

"We missing anybody?"

While they pushed and squabbled, circling the bowls and scarfing down kibble, he counted them. Eventually, he sniffed, satisfied with the number.

"...At least that's good… Hey, now, don't fight, there's enough for everybody… Let Charlie in there… He's gotta eat like the rest o' you…" He placed his foot into the group, pushing their furry bodies around to fit in the last cat. He watched a second. Scratched his chin. Gave the interior station another hard look.

Maybe he ought to eat breakfast.

The task turned out to be easier said than done. Once he reached the kitchenette, he found the extent to which it had been thrown around, and so had to collect both appliances, utensils, and foodstuffs off the floor before he could even consider what to eat or how to prepare it. This grueling process went on for some fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes.

Just as his back threatened to give out, though, he heard the voice of his next visitor.

"You in there, Uncle?"

He strenuously grabbed the countertop and pulled himself up. He spotted Plumeria and puffed an ill-tempered breath. "...Is there a sign on my door that says 'bother me'?"

The girl tossed her pink pigtails and scanned the station; she must have heard about the scuffle, if she showed up this quickly to give it a look. "Oh my god." She tried not to laugh, but an impressed snort escaped her when she clapped a hand over her mouth. "They really did trash the place. I swear it wasn't like this yesterday."

Nanu's face wrinkled. He trudged forward and stood in the middle of the station, surrounded by the mess. "Good to know. I guess three days was too long to expect the place to stay in one piece."

"Sorry," she said. She studied his anger and put a hand to her hip. "Forget about rent this month."

"...Don't talk nonsense," he murmured, averting his eyes.

" _I mean it_."

He sighed, dropped his intention to further argue, and began plucking beer bottles from the floor and gathering them on top of the table.

"It was a group, right? Did you at least get to thump any of 'em?"

"No," he grumbled loudly, "your new toy poodle interrupted me. Not sure why he has license to come around here and tell me what to do. Say what you will about your old boss; at least he didn't say boo to me when I handled my own business."

That much was true: Guzma had no patience for the grunts who purposefully antagonized the old man and came complaining to their boss when they got their ears yanked or behinds kicked. _What'd you expect, dummy?_

"Gladion's just not used to it," Plumeria surmised, shrugging. "He wasn't raised that kind of way."

Nanu thought on Gladion's propriety and uptightness, and agreed, "Suppose that's true." He absently scratched his ear, felt the fidget in his fingertips that led them to his shirt pocket, and made his way past Plumeria and out the door.

Her eyes followed him, and she spoke up in alarm. "Where are you going?"

"Outside," he grunted, "for a smoke. Cripes, do I gotta explain everything to you?"

Plumeria was a girl of certain habits, but smoking was not one of them, so during his smoke break, she neglected to join in. She did, however, grant him her presence on the front stoop, watching him huff and flood his airways with the sulfurous stuff. He hacked up phlegm; she cracked jokes about drawing up his will. They had their ritual down.

Now, while the smoke of his cigarette rose into the wet air, he adjusted the stick on his lip and waited for Plumeria to address what she really wanted to talk about. Of course she had come over in response to hearing about the station―but more importantly, she must have known where Nanu had been. With whom he had been speaking, over these last few days. Ever since the engagement announcement came over the news, Plumeria had enforced an absolute rule of silence on the issue. No one dared breathe a word of it, or so much as hint at it in her presence. Even in her conversations with Nanu, she kept mum. In those weeks, Nanu tried to stay patient, to let her determine when and how she wanted to bring it up, but at this point, he thought, avoiding the topic was beyond silly. The wedding would happen in a matter of days.

So Nanu, when he saw that Plumeria didn't have the courage to, broached the topic on her behalf. "Hey, Rainbow. My ticket comes with a plus-one. Come to the wedding with me."

"What?" She shot him a disgusted, ferocious glare. "Why would I _ever_ ―"

"Free booze. I plan on being three sheets to the wind by the rehearsal dinner. You got better plans?"

She tapped her foot and ground her teeth, but couldn't come up with an answer. Maybe crashing the stupid wedding would make her feel better. She finally snorted at him. "Don't you have somebody else you can take?"

He shrugged. "Does it look like I have friends? Look, Scruffy already said no, so…"

"Gladion?" She burst out laughing. "Wait―you asked _him_ to be your date before you asked _me_?"

Nanu stared for a second then said, "You're uninvited." He ditched the cigarette to the ground, stamped it out, and walked back in through the doorway. "Gee, that was fast."

"...Wait!"

* * *

It had been years since Nanu operated a vehicle more complex than a ten-speed bike. Life on the islands didn't necessitate cars save for specific purposes, like transporting goods or busing large tour groups. Besides, Nanu liked the freedom and slow pacing of a proper walk.

However, there was no way he was about to carry luggage to the other side of the island.

Nanu laid on the horn and slumped in the driver's seat. Though all he could see was the shut, iron-cast door outside the Po Town walls, he muttered under his breath, "C'mon, girl, not waiting all day."

Another minute passed under a soft patter of rain. Fat drops collected on the windshield, fogging the view ahead of him; he lowered the passenger's side window to keep an eye out, and didn't worry too much as he watched the door and seat begin to drip and spatter wetly.

He hit the horn again, and the door opened.

"Cool your jets, grandpa!" Plumeria pried open and shut the hefty door with a clang, swinging a sizeable backpack about her shoulders and upholding an umbrella against the worst of the rain. Her effort with the door was clumsy, and a real gentleman would have stepped out of the car to assist her, but Nanu felt pretty comfortable and dry where he was. Finally, she poked her head in through the window. "Can you pop the trunk?"

"Is that all you're bringing?"

She rustled her bag as it rested against her back. "I pack light."

Nanu briefly thought on his own experience with women's packing habits, but chose not to quibble over a light load. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Just throw it in the back seat. Lots o' room there."

Promptly, she tossed both her bag and her wet umbrella into the back seat, and she twisted herself into sitting position, shutting the car door. As she settled into the passenger seat, he noticed her wardrobe: a sleek red dress, gold bangles and necklace, and high heels. Ever her hair, usually bound up and sticking out ridiculously, had been loosened and set to a gentle curl down her shoulders.

Nanu, who wore his usual, coffee-stained red shirt and police uniform, snorted at this display of care. "What are you _wearing?_ "

Plumeria smoothed out the wrinkles at her knees and raised an eyebrow at him. "...A dress?"

"You know the wedding ain't actually 'til tomorrow."

"It's a cocktail dress, you―" She yanked the invitation schedule from his dashboard and read aloud, " _Please board in light formal wear; there will be cocktails and hors d'oeuvres upon boarding._ " She gave him some side-eye. "Did you _read_ the schedule?"

"I skimmed it." He shrugged. "T'be honest, I wasn't planning on dressing up anyway. Where'd you get that―" He vaguely pointed at her. "―thing?"

"My closet? I have clothes, you know."

"...Coulda fooled me. Always walkin' around half-naked."

To his surprise, she balled her hand into a fist and thumped him in the arm. He yelped and clutched himself.

"Hey! Assaulting an officer! That's a felony, you know!"

"Arrest me."

He glared at her sternly, then rubbed the spot where she had struck. Cripes, she had an arm on her. "Don't start sassing me, girl, 'less you wanna start walking."

"I might get there faster if I did." She clubbed the dashboard, as if testing whether it was about to fall apart. "Where'd you get this clunker?"

"It's a rental. Don't break anything." He produced the keys and put them into the ignition. "So, what's the gameplan, Rainbow? Seduce the bridegroom?"

"No. Was that _your_ plan?"

Nanu rolled his eyes and mumbled something caustic, but she couldn't make it out.

She crossed her feet and straightened her dress as he started the engine, put on the windshield wipers on, and pulled the car into gear. Finally, once the drive started, she asked, "...How do you feel about hijacking a vessel at sea?"

"Huh." He stared straight ahead, but put on a grin. "Sounds like every _good_ party I've ever been to."

* * *

On a day as balmy as this one, the beach beside the Grand Hano Resort would normally be covered with hotel guests relaxing in their bathing suits, or children combing its white sands, but today, the bulk of the activity spilled from the hotel lobby and out onto the sparkling plaza. The sounds of bubbling fountains and laughter mixed with the rolling and pushing of luggage, as guests collected themselves outside after checking out from their rooms. As a group, these people came in a variety of ages and genders, but had mostly pale complexions of far-off regions, and could be heard occasional making exclamations in foreign tongues. The whole lot clinked and jingled with wealth, with their cufflinks, bracelets, and earrings; they smelled of perfume and polish.

 _These,_ Nanu thought, _are truly not my people_.

From where he and Plumeria stood, at the back steps to the plaza (they had not yet ventured up to join the crowd, and Nanu seemed content keeping it that way), they could see the dock. The ferry they took to Akala had already departed, leaving the terminal empty. Just when Plumeria thought to ask, _so where's this boat?_ , a blast of a gutteral sound shook the island, rattling the glass of the hotel's windows, and in its wake, a monstrous, drifting structure appeared from behind the building, carving its passage through the waters. The noise and sight of the brilliant white cruise ship set the whole crowd aflutter; they secured their items and began to cluster towards the dock. It became apparent that the pair would be stuck at the end of the line if they didn't start to move. Plumeria went first; Nanu sighed and hobbled after her.

The cruise liner glowed luminous in the direct sunlight, bathed in white and glinting chrome, and it moved swiftly for such a large, bulky vehicle. It slipped into place at the dock, groaning and hissing like a living thing. And as Plumeria felt its shadow creep and cast over the plaza, her stomach clenched and sank.

"You still up for this?"

She turned in surprise to find Nanu studying her. She frowned. "Sure I am."

"...Because you don't have to."

Plumeria examined the tall, consuming monster before her. It growled hungrily as the boarding platform lowered. "I know."

Boarding was uneventful, if uncomfortably crowded. At least this group didn't push and shove like frantic tourists―the occasional gripe about the wait could be heard, but otherwise the guests were exceptionally behaved. By then, though, Nanu and Plumeria noticed they received a number of odd and suspicious looks, as if the others were not entirely convinced they belonged there. Nanu figured she'd mouth off on someone eventually for their blatant rudeness, but instead, she pretended not to notice and took her careful, gradual steps closer to the ramp.

At the top of the ramp, just before the entrance, there stood a man who took tickets and ushered guests through. They approached, and the representative stood at sharp attention, wearing a navy blue uniform with shining brass buttons; he affably requested Nanu's ticket and identification, which he handed over. But after Nanu received his papers back, the representative turned and gestured at Plumeria.

"...And the young lady?"

"She's my plus-one."

The representative nodded. "I'll still need some form of ID."

Plumeria, expecting this, plunged her hand into her back pocket, produced a wallet― covered it with her hand, giving Nanu a warning stare, and handed over an identification card so that Nanu couldn't see. The kahuna wasn't surprised by her caution. She had warded off all of his attempts at checking out her background, and she wasn't about to offer up a juicy detail like a full name or birth date.

The representative took her card, gave it a cursory glance, and made a suddenly alarmed expression.

 _Uh-oh_. Had they been made? It was just his luck.

Plumeria, though, decided to ignore the look and try get a reaction. She looped her arm around Nanu's, gushing, "Oh, sweetheart, our first cruise! Aren't you excited?"

He cringed, but forced words through clenched teeth. "Uh-huh. You bet."

The representative uneasily looked between them.

"What are you gawking at? Dating babies. Thought it was the theme of this whole shebang."

"The attendant," the representative said, pointing inside with insistence, "will check your luggage."

* * *

Though Plumeria looked closely over the group now gathered on the open deck, far at the top of the cruise ship. Tables covered in white linens and ornate decorations lined the platform, and guests lazily followed them, occasionally plucking food or drink. In addition, a number of boat attendants navigated the crowds, holding plates balanced with champagne glasses and neatly-crafted hors d'oeuvres. But look as she did, Plumeria did not see any evidence of either bride or groom-to-be.

Her stomach gnarled back into a tight knot. She saw more looks―more elegant, dull faces turning to the two of them with questioning expressions. So she moved her body, forcing herself to ignore them, and looped her arm about Nanu's.

Nanu, unnaturally startled, jumped at the touch. He had stood so blithely with his hands deep in his pockets, that he hadn't noticed her standing so close. "What? ...You need something?"

"No."

"You…" He looked directly at her arm, hoping to force her to explain herself, but it didn't work. He sighed. "Whatever. Look, why don't you go ahead and mingle. I'll be at the bar." Nanu began leaning hard in its direction at the other end of the deck.

However, Plumeria didn't release his arm, instead tugging him back. "The bar's going to be there all week. If you want the good hors d'oeuvres, you gotta move before they run out."

"I'm not really a finger-food guy," he started to say, but she already had him.

Far above the easy and friendly chatter of the wedding guests, above even the flutter of tablecloths and dresses, and the diminutive hum of violin strings, the sky deepened in its blue. Clouds formed to cover the afternoon sun, washing out the vibrancy of all the colors onboard, and as evening crept ever-closer, the guests' shadows overpassed one another, causing a constant flickering of light and dark across the wooden floor of the deck, and faces seemed to appear and disappear at random. Plumeria, though, didn't pay attention to their faces as she pulled Nanu about in her quest for food.

She had solidified her grip on his arm. After a while, this earned them substantially more attention than their odd appearance; a level of confusion, then discomfort passed over those who stood nearby. Nanu nearly thought to object on being dragged around in such a manner―it wasn't like he knew these people, but he wasn't especially crazy about being labelled a cradle-robber, either―when she found a crispy palmier and shoved it in his face, touching it to his lips.

"Uh." He tilted his head back irritably and brought his hand up to take it from her. "Can feed myself, thanks." He popped it in.

"I see mussels. Do you like mussels?" She didn't wait for his answer before yanking him in their direction.

"Whatever―yeah, hey," he said, motioning to the people she just bumped and shoved past, "coming through, pardon―"

This cycle of pulling, snatching food and moving quickly to the next item went on for some time―capturing a healthy spread of tartines, caviar, canapés, scallops, brochettes, rissoles, croquettes… None of which, to his surprise, she rejected. To the contrary, she didn't hesitate in her handling of them, nor did she cringe in startled disgust at any of their flavors. He studied her reactions so carefully that he stopped minding her feeding him.

At least, until she tried to foist a small piece of bread with some black, gooey gunk on it he didn't like the smell of.

"Here, try this," she said.

"What is it?"

"It's escargot."

"Woah, hey." He drew up his hands in surrender. "I gotta draw a line at eating worms, sorry."

"It's a _snail_ , not a worm."

"Uh-uh. I wanna see _you_ eat it."

Plumeria gave him an exasperated look. "Ugh! Fine―" He didn't have time to take back his dare; she took it in one bite, chewed, and swallowed. "See? You big baby, it's not that bad."

Kahuna Nanu stopped to stare at her, at first baffled, then amused, like he'd cracked a code.

"What?" She knew that look, and didn't like it. She put her other hand to her hip. "What is it?"

"You come from money, don't you?"

The shock in her face told him everything. She didn't respond, and stared back at him a moment, until she broke eye contact and desperately pretended not to understand.

Eventually, Nanu decided not to wait for her to answer. He gazed out over the greying sea. "...My ex came from money. It was the way she carried herself." He felt her arm squeezing against his bicep, so he lowered his voice. "You don't wanna talk exes?"

Still, Plumeria remained silent. By now, they had worked themselves away from the thick throng. Finally, in their walking, she pulled on the skirt of her dress and said, "Do you want that drink now?"

Nanu smiled wolfishly and nodded. "Lead the way."

* * *

Though a kahuna, and ostensibly a man who upheld tradition and custom, Nanu did not see many redeeming qualities in pompous affairs such as weddings. Perhaps he was embittered by his own personal failures, but in his broader sense of value, he saw these debacles―weddings, festivals, dances, ceremonies, funerals―as noisy, cluttered nonsense. They involved stuffy routines, emotional outbursts that were well-scripted and timed, and worst of all, small-talkers. If forced to attend, he lessened their impact in whatever way he could: arrive late and leave early; sit or stand strategically on the outliers to avoid human contact; drink or eat himself into a happy stupor.

Nanu thought on this and contemplated his own motives for attending this event. The beer in his hand served currently as his best excuse, but he wondered how deep his self-pity went.

Then, just as easily, he turned his conjecture on her. Was her coming here desperation? Revenge? Resignation? Morbid curiosity?

With their drinks in hand, they retreated away from the crowd and found their way downstairs to the quiet of the promenade deck. Here, the sound of the clatter, music, and laughter sounded distant compared to the easy slap of the sea, and not another soul had ventured this far from the partying, so the two were completely alone, looking out over the railing. It was a good, comfortable silence.

The ship hadn't set off yet―and neither Guzma nor Lusamine had appeared to the guests. Nanu started to wonder.

Plumeria, after drinking some of her champagne, finally asked, "You were on Mele'mele. Right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"So you talked to him."

"Uh-huh."

She nervously danced her fingers around the glass. "Well? What did you talk about?"

"...It was private."

This response bothered her; obviously, she thought she was owed some intel. "Okay, _sure,_ " she said, voice strained, "but did he explain himself? Did you even _try_ to talk him out of this?"

"Who the devil said it was my job to do that? Look, Rainbow, if you had something to say to him, you know where he lives. Nothin' was stopping you from making the trip yourself."

Nanu almost immediately regretted his tone; Plumeria, wounded, turned her back to him. It took some time and a few additional sips of champagne for her to come back around, and without looking him in the eye, she confessed, "I loved him once." She wrinkled her brow, as if hearing the words from her mouth disturbed her. "I mean… As much as a thirteen-year-old kid loves anybody. You know?" Unsurprisingly, Nanu had little to add to that comment, so Plumeria, in the momentary pause, tilted back her glass, drinking the last of the pearly champagne. She trailed only a few steps away to set down the empty glass at a nearby end table, then returned, her face somehow even more guarded than before. She looked out where the afternoon sky started to burn into the reds and pinks of sunset, and her eyes and skin radiated with the horizon's flush rosé color. She looked vibrant. Strong. But in a far away place, a far gone place. Finally, she said, voice barely above a whisper, "...Maybe I never really knew him."

Nanu snorted. "You really believe that?"

"I said 'maybe'!" She gripped the dangling cords of her hair, tugging on them in frustration. "It's just… I didn't think in a million years…! What is he thinking! That he'd just go along with it, being some cougar's boy-toy, be some trophy husband…"

"In my experience, people do what makes sense to them."

"'Sense'!" She folded her arms tightly in exasperation. "I'd love to knock some into him about now. Where _is_ he, anyway? Have you seen either of them?"

"The couple? Nope."

"Well, where the heck are they!"

"...Could be letting off some pre-wedding steam..."

"Ugh!" Plumeria slapped his arm hard and fumed. "You're disgusting!"

"Complain if you want," he countered, scoffing, "but come their honeymoon, you know there's gonna be some adult content―ow, all right, all right, _ow_."

After delivering a few more smacks to his arm and hearing his whining, her anger subsided. "... _Stupid_ ," she muttered at him, though by now with a hint of affection.

As they watched the sun just begin to bronze, Plumeria sighed a tired sigh, rested her chin in her one hand, and started to lean into him. Nanu, caught up in his thoughts, simply finished his beer and dropped the empty bottle to the floor, and in committing this careless action, he felt her wrapping her arm around his once more. He nearly thought she was trying to balance herself―that perhaps the champagne or the sway of the boat had suddenly affected her―but no, she stood firmly against the railing, her shoulder pressed up against him.

Nanu looked around himself. He rolled his eyes. "You know…" He eased his hand between their conjoined limbs and untangled himself until he stood freely at her side. "You can drop it now. There's nobody here to witness the little game you're playing."

"Huh?"

"Your arm candy routine. Ain't you got any shame―gadding about, pretending to be hanging on some geezer's arm?"

She laughed. "Like I care what they think. Besides. I wouldn't mind it."

The comment almost flew right over his head. He blinked and gave her a cross arch of an eyebrow. "...Come again?"

"You're not that bad. You're hilarious. You say what you think. You don't let other people push you around―not us, not the kahunas, not the tapu, not _anybody_."

He pushed his body to face the other direction.

"...And you've looked out for me. For us. When you didn't have to."

" _Hrmph_."

"You're not bad-looking, either―"

He turned back around in a huff, wearing a terrific scowl. "Are you quite finished embarrassing yourself?"

"I'm saying I like you. Don't you like me?"

"I..." Nanu shook his head, like he had narrowly avoided a trap. A grumble curdled in his throat. "...You're trying to get a man in trouble. Shouldn't tease old folk like that, you know."

"What! I'm not teasing!" Her eyelids fell, weighed with thought; she reached over and touched his arm. "Nanu. I'm saying I would. If you asked."

He stared down at her hand, flabbergasted.

How had he missed it?

It was easy to overlook when she wandered Po Town wearing those goofy, skanky outfits that she must have felt empowered her; it was easy to overlook when she snorted at dirty jokes and threatened those who bullied her "stupid little brothers and sisters." But now, by the light of sunset and ocean gleam, with gold bracelets at her delicate wrist and a fine dress trailing down her back, she blossomed, and he realized that's what she was: a young woman. Strong, and beginning to embrace the passions that drove all natural life.

He was an idiot, he thought. The way she spoke to him all this time―the looks she cast on him―that he dismissed as a little girl's fancies―

He looked away. Tried to. But she put a hand to his face, turned him to her, and kissed him.

A soft, kindly, bird of a kiss, flapping its wings, burgeoning with an affection he didn't know he remembered until now.

* * *

" _Nanu," the blonde agent whispered, "I'm not asking much, am I? I know I can't compete with her―you'd never leave her―that's why―"_

 _She works her slender fingers under his shirt; her kisses press against his throat. The hotel room door had shut, locking in the dark and sticky warmth._

 _"Please―is it so much?―to have you hold me―just this once, to have you here with me―"_

 _And he fell with her―fell with that Faller, fell deep into pleasure and the agony of broken promises._

 _The last thing he said to her before fate ripped her from him in violent retribution for his sins, but shortly after awakening her by kissing the back of her neck, was a cheeky, "Someday, you're gonna get me in such trouble, aren't you?"_

* * *

For just a second―a measly, hair's breadth of a moment―she thought she felt him kissing back.

Then he pulled away.

Plumeria thought she had seen the full range of Nanu's emotions, seeing as he didn't seem to have range at all―anywhere beyond chagrined, irritated, or furious, anyway. His eyebrows were always locked together in a permanent scowl that spared no one, and his eyes always roamed cold and ruthlessly over that which he surveyed.

But when he looked at her now, she saw something new and completely unfamiliar. He gaped, speechless, like she had just punched him in the gut. "Y-you…" He coughed once, then twice, struggling to breathe. His expression drooped and he looked at her sadly, almost crushed. "Rainb―" He stopped himself, sighed steeply. "Plumeria."

He started to lift his arm, as if considering reaching out, but he must have thought better of it. Instead, he touched her hand, removing it from his face and placing it back at her side.

"Two years." He somberly leaned back over the railing. "Seen you grow up, haven't I… Seen you become a young lady…" Unspoken regrets rolled off his tongue. "My place ain't with you… I've made enough mistakes for one lifetime. Besides, this world's for the young, not for washed-up wretches like me."

"So what? Washed-up wretches need love, too."

He gave a bitter laugh at that thought. "I had my shot… A long, long time ago. But who knows. Life is long. Too long, in my opinion." He had rambled enough. "Anyway… You oughtta start lookin' at somebody your own age."

"Pff. Like who?"

"What am I, your matchmaker?" He was silent only a second longer as he scratched his ear in thought. "Molayne's single."

Plumeria screamed, startling him. " _What_? Are you joking?"

"What's so funny about it?"

"That king of nerds? Can you give me _one_ good reason?"

Nanu, genuinely surprised by her resistance, shrugged helplessly. "I dunno. He's cute, I guess."

He had said it so plainly, so gruffly, so _matter-of-factly_ , that she almost died from laughter. "Oh my god!" She shrieked and pummelled him in the arm with her fist. "Shut up!"

* * *

If there was a time for the engaged couple to show themselves, it should have been the dinner, to which all the guests were called soon after. Yet as the guests filed in, finding their assigned tables, every keen eye noticed that the spot of honor remained empty and unattended.

The dining suite itself overtook nearly half of the ship's interior space, encompassing all three floors; the guests for this occasion occupied the main floor, though for larger parties, two additional floors of dining space overlooked the space behind balcony railing. The entire suite stood on gold-colored columns, and was lined with ivory accents that made the space glow under its strong lights. The circular tables packed in rather tightly on the floor, so it took considerable time for everyone to weave through and find their seats, even with the guidance of attendants.

Finally, though, most settled. In lieu of the wedding couple, a gaudy, willowy woman wearing a white fur coat skipped up to the front of the tables, smiling and gesturing at the occasional, apparently recognized guest, until at last she was handed a working microphone and spoke in a clear, lilting voice.

 _Thank you, merci, welcome, welcome! Bienvenue!_

The roar of confused speech quieted to hear her. Many turned in their chairs or strained their necks to see. The woman tried to appear calm, but some apprehension could be heard in her hurry to speak.

 _We're very sorry for the delay in schedule tonight―Madame has given me permission to tell you that she has been feeling, ah, under the weather, unfortunately… And so, she will not be joining us tonight… But, we hope to disembark soon, beginning our overnight cruise to Unova… In the meanwhile, dinner service will continue..._

(Someone in the crowd spoke a question aloud, and though not everyone could hear them, the woman answered.)

 _Ah, yes, and the gentleman is currently attending the lady…_

(Nanu nudged Plumeria and said, "Told you." She elbowed him back twice as hard in the ribs.)

 _They both send their regrets and best wishes to you all… They hope after a good night's rest, they will be able to rejoin the festivities. Merci! Amusez-vous!_

She stepped away unceremoniously, and the news proved such a puzzling surprise, that no one knew how to respond to it, other than uncomfortably returning to their small-talk about the tables. Within a minute or so, the din of conversation returned to normal.

While Plumeria had become distracted by dinner service, however, Nanu picked up on further activity up front. He kept an eye on the woman speaker, and watched as both an attendant and a stuffy, important-looking woman approached her. The attendant spoke in her ear, and she exclaimed something in surprise, making emphatic motions with her hands.

"Hey, Rainbow. Something's up," he said.

Plumeria snapped to attention. "Huh?"

"Look."

The group grew, one-by-one, as members of the Board of Directors approached and gabbed with one another. Then, suddenly, said group left for the exit door.

"Wanna snoop?"

As if he had to ask. Plumeria glanced about―seeing the empty spaces on the tables surrounded with too many utensils, the waiters coming around with dishes of food, and the couple sitting opposite to them, who hadn't spoken a word to them. She pushed out from the table. "Uh, _yeah_ , let's do it."

No one prevented them from leaving, though they earned plenty of looks for their hurrying between tables to reach the exit. They caught up enough to see the directors turn toward the boarding dock, and as the two followed, they noticed an abundance of activity among the ship's staff―likely preparing for disembarking.

"Do you think the wedding's cancelled?" Plumeria asked, not disguising the hope in her voice.

"Quiet. Can't hear."

Indeed, several yards in front of them, the moving group persisted in their talking. However, over the sound of the ocean waves, grinding of the ship's awakening engines, and the distance between them, they could make out very little.

 _"...Didn't think they'd…"_

 _"...Unexpected…"_

 _"...You think she…"_

In the dark of approaching evening, outdoor lights lining the ship began to spring to life. And with that burst of illumination, Plumeria could make out, from far away, the two figures at the boarding dock, whom the directors fast approached. Nanu, at his age, didn't have her night-time vision, so she had to nudge him and hiss.

"Oh my god."

"What?"

"They came."

Nanu got impatient. "'They'?"

Plumeria squeezed his bicep with painful force. She spoke breathlessly. "Gladion. And Lillie."

Perhaps she meant this revelation to shock him as it did her; she continued to gawk until the two, small adolescents were surrounded by the pack of curious Aether directors. However, Nanu didn't move or express any surprise. He only shrugged. "Huh. Welp. Maybe this whole thing'll get to be interesting, after all."


	21. White Knight

**(Author's note: Due to malfunctioning subscription emails, you may have missed the previous chapter "Trouble." If you have not read Nanu and Plumeria's adventures on a giant boat, click back to update yourself and resume reading!)**

* * *

 **Several days earlier…**

Faba thought―wrongly―that he would be able to experience his morning hour of peace, with a cup of dark tea balanced on the end table, his feet propped on an ottoman, and the morning paper, which had been freshly delivered to his door mere minutes ago. This ritual offered him the only bit of relaxation he could afford in his current, overcrowded schedule.

But just when he started to scan the headlines, his focus was interrupted by a voice coming from the other room.

" _Oh my god_."

(He tried to ignore it.)

"Francine's pregnant."

His fingers tightened on the newspaper, then dropped it onto his lap with an exasperated sigh. When Faba looked up from his chair, he saw Aster trotting back into the living room while staring at his phone. Said younger scientist was still shabbily dressed in loungewear, face and hair ungroomed; this contrasted sharply to Faba, who needed only to throw on his lab coat to start the work-day looking professional and awake. Faba grimaced, but decided to prod. "...Who?"

"Francine." Aster gave him a momentarily disbelieving look. "You know… _Francine_. Works the front desk in HR." A blink on his device triggered a series of responsive taps from his fingertips, and he added, "It's probably Miguel's. No―definitely."

" _Aster_ ," Faba complained, shaking his head, "I never have the faintest idea who you're going on about."

Aster collapsed into a nearby chair, pushing aside a pile of papers to find his seat. He chided, rather unseriously, "Do you know _any_ of the employees by name?"

"Of course I know some of them. The important ones."

"Ooh, _ouch_."

Faba, hoping to end the exchange, grumpily pulled his newspaper back up to his face. He unfolded the pages, rifling through to another section. "Indulge in office gossip if you like. I'd rather read something of actual material importance."

"Uh-huh…" Leaning over, Aster peeked at Faba's paper and asked cheekily, "What page is that? The celebrity column?"

Faba grunted and flapped the paper hard in his hands, creating a sharp, cracking noise, and went silent again.

When Guzma left Aether―vanished, really―he left the island in some dire straits. In the mere few days of his absence, Lusamine had descended quickly: first, roving in a maniacal search for answers, screaming and launching accusations in every direction; then collapsing into pathetic, woe-is-me misery, sulking about her home; and finally, in a form very recognizable to Faba, she cocooned herself in her bedroom, refusing the company of anyone she deemed inessential.

Faba had not successfully gathered the cause for Guzma's expedient exit, but he could make some educated guesses. The boy's restlessness and instability had been apparent even from afar. Lusamine had clearly lost control of him, and herself.

Thus, the familiar cycle started all over again. Faba had witnessed it time and time again: when Mohn disappeared, when Gladion ran, when Lillie followed suit, when the Beasts initially slipped through her fingers… Her precious baubles, the things she loved more than she could comprehend, each dissolving into the sea. These circumstances, he thought, proved Mrs. Wicke's necessity. Normally, Wicke would be the one to talk the woman down, reason with her. Now, an attending nurse and flustered attendants did what they could―with miserably poor results.

Faba didn't know if Guzma intended to come back. Certainly, it would simplify matters if he didn't. Lusamine would gradually crawl out from under the bed; the spectacle and glitz on the island would fold away; and she would, eventually, find some new shiny creature to latch onto. Lusamine was nothing if not adaptable.

But Faba's hopes were unceremoniously cut down, in the form of a phone call Aster picked up in the middle of tea that morning. The man immediately put the device to his head upon receiving the buzz. "What's up?"  
Faba could hardly fathom the rudeness of chatting over the phone this early in the morning. He clasped his head. "Aster, is it so much to ask― just a few minutes of quiet―"

" _What_?" Suddenly, the other scientist lurched forward in his seat, nearly jumping, and with a free hand, waved maniacally in Faba's face to get his attention.

"Aster," Faba hissed irritably, knocking his hand away, "what on earth―"

" _When_?"

A pause.

"Is he back for good, though, or…?"

...And there, Faba felt the descent and pained clench of his stomach; he let the paper slide to the floor.

"Well, I suppose," Aster said, still talking to the person on the other end of the line. He stood to his feet and put on a nervous expression, balancing a hand on his hip. "So much for a quiet weekend, huh?"

While Aster talked, Faba, without speaking, stood up and started for the front door of the suite. He plucked his white lab coat from the wall and threw it over his shoulders.

Finally, Aster noticed. He put a hand over the receiver. "...Where are you going?"

"Aster," he said, somewhat breathless as he pulled his arms through the sleeves, "I want you to start the morning cycles for me."

"What?" The request more than startled him; Faba was notoriously over-protective of his equipment, and barely trusted Aster with the lab under his supervision. "...Are you sure? You don't want me to…"

"Just do it! I'll…" He fastened his coat buttons hastily. "I'll be down shortly."

* * *

The first employee Faba found downstairs got a real ear-full.

 _Inexcusable!_ he screamed. _Does being Branch Chief mean nothing around here!? How is that I had to hear about this second-hand― Why wasn't I notified?_

It took several minutes for said employee to understand what he was ranting about, and a few more for the employee to contact the involved parties. Security answered, made excuses, then begrudgingly admitted that Guzma would be arriving at the docks within the next hour. Apparently, such intel had been fed through a small group of security personnel, and it started to make its way to Lusamine, but for unstated reasons, they neglected going to Faba. This lack of communication had unfortunately become common lately (yet another dysfunction Faba didn't remember experiencing when Wicke was here to organize things).

When Faba reached the dock downstairs, he found several employees standing ready. One turned in surprise.

"Branch Chief? Why are you―"

"I'd appreciate not being questioned. I imagine he's on his way?"

The employees glanced at each other nervously. "Yes, sir."

 _"Well_." He neatened the angle of his lapel, and buffed his buttons. "Someone of importance ought to greet him back, don't you think?"

With a small hint of reservation, they echoed, "Yes, sir."

* * *

As Faba planted himself, standing importantly a few feet from the quiet, crystalline water, which swelled and dipped in a peaceful sway, he pondered the events that would soon take place. The boat would appear on the horizon, the boy would step back onto solid ground, and… What? Faba had seen so little of the young man, since their last conversation in the lower laboratory; Guzma had taken his advice and stopped talking to him, but Faba still caught sight of him in the public places of the island. He had seemed, up until now, antsy. Easily agitated. The kahuna had taken to abusing staff and growing impatient with the slightest error. No wonder Guzma had been so successful as a gang leader, Faba thought. He could be a horrible tyrant, given the right circumstances.

Was Guzma returning to slide back into that woman's graces? To exact some sort of revenge, for whatever offenses she's committed against him? To deliver a declaration of independence? To poke around, in a gesture of exploratory surgery, searching for what was wrong with the place? Surely Guzma realized by now how sick Aether was―how disease penetrated its heart. But Faba had no means to read the boy's mind or intentions.

So Faba decided: he'd cut the boy off at the pass. Make him tell him what he was going to do. Certainly, he'd have to do it before Guzma was whisked off to the spider's parlor.

In the bright morning sunlight, a drawn line of bright brightened the horizon, so that when the boat first appeared, its white carapace blended nearly completely with the color of the waves. However, within minutes, it grew in size, sloped downward toward the shore, and began its fast approach. Faba, still caught up in his thoughts, settled his nerves by tightening his hands at his back.

The sound of the boat's engine arrived first, reverberating its sputtering over the waves, and the boat followed by gliding itself smoothly into place. The well-practiced pilot fit the vehicle inches from the dock and cut the engine, so that in the sudden silence, Faba and the waiting employees heard the cabin door pop open. Out crawled a white-dressed attendant first―then, ducking under the doorway, there appeared Guzma.

The boy stood straight and tall, turned his head to give the island a sullen look, and stepped out.

Faba scrambled to position himself at the port side. There, he awaited deboarding. Once Guzma took the careful steps down onto solid ground, Faba cleared his throat and tried to look important.

"Guzma," Faba announced. "Welcome back."

Guzma turned around to meet him. An expression of surprise, then indifference crossed Guzma's face as he looked at him. The boy, Faba realized, looked… different somehow. He wore casual clothing in the form of a red hoodie over a plain white shirt, which, combined with his partially untied sneakers and floppy hair, made him look more juvenile than Faba remembered. He held a duffel bag over his shoulder, and the slope in his posture and eyes communicated heft, like something weighed on him. Most worryingly, upon a second look, Faba noticed a butterfly bandage at the edge of his forehead, just barely obscured by his hair. He did seem to have some faded bruising, the result of some fight, Faba supposed...

Faba did not let Guzma's stone silence deter him. He spoke again, maintaining a stuffy tone. "No doubt you want to hear what's transpired―let's go to my office, and we can―"

Guzma broke eye contact and walked past him, toward the elevator.

Faba hesitated only a second, and fruitlessly tried to follow. "...In… _In my office,_ we can discuss the situation, and what's happening going forward―"

When Guzma paused in his steps, he didn't address Faba, but shot a glare at a nearby employee to ask, "Where's Miss L?"

"She's safely at home," Faba said. "But I still suggest we―"

"A'ight. Let's go."

The ambiguity of Guzma's statement made Faba ask, "Go where?"

"I need to see Miss L," Guzma answered, and with that, he pushed forward and reached the elevator shaft.

"Young man―" Faba bit his cheek and successfully, but barely, suppressed the urge to scream. He scuttled quickly after him. "Do you understand what I'm telling you? _You should not see her now_."

"Why not?"

"Because!" Faba would have elaborated further if they weren't in the company of uncomfortable employees, so he cut himself off with a harsh, frustrated sigh. "It is my advice… As Branch Chief."

The elevator gate lowered, opening the platform. Guzma stepped inside, and Faba, sensing he wasn't convinced, shooed away the other employees so that they could have a moment of privacy. Once the gates lifted and the platform ascended upward into the shaft, the elevator went quiet, save for the hum of electricity and rush of passing air.

Faba stared at the wall, sealing his hands behind himself again, and worked up the courage to speak. As if worried they would be overheard, he hissed between clenched teeth, " _She isn't well_."

"...You said that before."

"What?"

Guzma turned his whole body toward him. Suddenly, his height and weight felt incredibly real, and Faba realized he may have made a mistake, sending the others away. "You know," Guzma explained dryly, "when I first got here. With the beasts. An' she was all…"

Faba blinked, but finally made the connection. "Ah, right. Yes, her condition is comparable. This is what happens when she cannot get something she desperately wants."

"Wants…" The word, and the bitter tone it was spoken in, triggered a private thought in Guzma, which Faba didn't bother prodding into.

"It's unseemly behavior for a grown woman," Faba continued to gripe. "Whatever hold you have on her, I wish you'd relinquish it."

Before Guzma could respond to this puzzling comment, the elevator stopped on the second floor, lowered its gates, and allowed the two to step out near the front desk, where workers spotted them. With their privacy compromised, they stopped talking altogether and moved purposefully for the house.

* * *

Lusamine's home had a dismal, oppressive air the first moment they walked inside. Morning light barely managed to break through the thick curtains over the windows; the place echoed like a tomb. Faba wondered if Guzma noticed. Certainly, he didn't change pace or posture. He kept the heaviness in his steps and the dark resolve in his face.

A few stressed attendants greeted them downstairs, and didn't like Guzma's intent on visiting Lusamine any more than Faba did, but they didn't argue. What they did, as they brought them to her bedroom, was impress warnings against exciting her, antagonizing her, frightening her… By their nervous nattering, it seemed they thought she was made of glass.

When they reached the door, Faba stayed back. An antagonistic exchange between Lusamine and himself a day earlier meant he knew better than to venture inside. The nurse―a relatively new employee, who had claimed many of Wicke's lesser duties―opened the door from the inside and poked her head out, saw Faba and Guzma, and promptly stiffened.

Guzma blurted before Faba could speak: "She okay?"

"Master Guzma." She looked ready to chide him, but mercifully didn't. "She's expecting you."

Though Faba hoped to add something, an additional warning maybe, or a cautious query, but Guzma moved too quickly, pushing through the door, past the nurse, and into the room.

The nurse eyed Faba a moment, as if expecting him as well, but the scientist didn't budge, so she nodded and shut the door.

Faba strained to listen from where he stood.

Behind the closed door, there was a cry―a nearly indiscernible thump―and then silence.

Faba waited. Counted. Glanced at his watch.

But the explosion he expected never came.

In the end, he extracted himself from the hushed conversation inside, sat in a chair against the far wall, and waited. The situation could be far worse, he decided. He would take whatever good outcomes he could―no matter their slightness. Though when the door opened and the nurse emerged, he had to question it.

"What's the matter?"

The nurse, surprised, shook her head. "Nothing; they asked to be alone."

"And you…" Faba searched her expression. "You think that's wise?"

"They seem alright," the nurse responded. She tilted her head inside the room again, looked satisfied, and turned back to him. "Did you need something from them, Branch Chief?"

He thought hard and relented. His fingers twisted and danced together in a frantic rhythm as me muttered, "...No. No, thank you."

The nurse shut the door behind her and left him alone in the hallway.

* * *

After what felt like forever, but by any accurate measure could be described as approximately a quarter of an hour, Guzma emerged, not looking any more cheerful than before. In fact, he appeared distinctly more haggard―more sluggish, as if the very breath of the room had wrung him out. Faba saw the bags under his eyes, previously disguised by the light bruising he'd noticed before. When Guzma saw him, the boy squinted, like he hadn't anticipated the man still being there.

Faba stood up expectantly. "Guzma. We really should talk."

A distrusting frown steepened on Guzma's face.

"We could go back to my office, unless you have another place in mind."

Guzma stuffed a hand down into his pocket, and there stirred the jangling of loose keys. He snorted and started down the hallway. "...Got my own office now, so… Yeah, let's 'talk,' huh."

"'Got your own'..." Faba shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

Guzma didn't answer, but sucked his teeth and moved to the end of the hallway, stopping at the heavy wooden door holding up a fine metal plaque bearing the title: 'President of the Board.' Though Faba followed him, he ended up freezing a few yards from the door, as he was too stunned to move any further. For a flash of a moment, he thought for sure Guzma had to be joking. But sure enough, Guzma brought out a ring of keys and, after rifling through them, found the correct one to unlock the latch and push his way inside. The door creaked from disuse.

"Guzma," Faba said, his voice strangled and overwrought. He felt his head start to swim.

But the boy had already disappeared inside.

* * *

No.

 _No_.

Faba refused to believe this.

His feet, which had stiffened to the floor, yanked into motion, and he launched himself at the old President's office.

* * *

Years ago, Lusamine had shut that door with an air of finality. After Mohn disappeared, she co-opted the modest space for herself, using it for the everyday affairs of paperwork and management, but once she digitally converted the most crucial of the documents and moved her office to the main public building, she had no reason to continue using the private office. The place was only ever cracked open if she needed a specific, unarchived file, but other than this occasional venture, the room went untouched. Uncleaned by staff. Avoided by Faba.

The decoration, style, and furnishings of the office had an old world feel that did not match the rest of the house―though it used to, before Lusamine performed a complete overhaul on the mansion. As a couple, both Mohn and Lusamine agreed that the office held sentimental value and should be kept as it was, and so the broad and brilliant wooden desk, the creaky office chair covered in lavish red leather, the ornate shaded lamps, the polished bookshelves lined with both tomes and binders, the varnished wood wall tile, the oriental rug spiralling with decorative foliage, and glass-panelled cabinets all remained in place. The difference in seeing it now, of course, was a fine layer of dust blanketing every open surface. The room smelled of its age and repressed grief.

By entering it, Faba felt a powerful wash of emotion―dread, regret, guilt―and sucked in a breath, like he had just broached an open tomb. How many hours had he spent in here? Mohn, rather improperly, liked to eat his lunch in his office, and nearly every day, he took it upon himself to track Faba down and invite him to eat together, as a continuation of an old habit formed in their college years. _Hey, let's do lunch, my office…_ Faba remembered trying to weasel out of it, as Mohn, not a political animal, didn't realize the jealousy such preferential treatment aroused. But Faba usually gave in. Mohn was that type of person―the sort you gave into.

Guzma, while Faba reminisced, showed no qualms about any of it, and so marched right up to the desk. He rudely scooped up a framed picture, wiping it down with his hand. He looked at the contents of the photo and immediately grinned. "Pssh. Look at the little dweebs, huh?" He flashed the picture at Faba―it was a familiar picture of the two children, young, about three and six respectively, if Faba remembered correctly. They smiled brilliantly and had feathers of their shock-blonde hair falling before their faces from the exertion of their play. While Lusamine preferred the posing and structure of professional family pictures, Mohn was a photography hobbyist, and would spend inordinate time snapping impromptu photos of his children and, when she chose to endure it, his wife.

Faba stared at it, felt the color draining from his face again, and chose not to comment. He did, however, weakly clear his throat. "Guzma," he said again. He felt and sounded so faint that he momentarily worried he wouldn't make it. "What are we doing in here?"

"I _told_ you," Guzma answered, irritably clapping the picture face-first onto the desk, "this is gonna be my office."

"I―" Faba gawped, choked, put a hand to his head, and stammered out, "I―I have so many questions, I can hardly―why do you need an office? Why this one? Did she tell you to―" A more pressing issue suddenly leaped into his brain, and he barked out at a higher volume, "And what _are_ you doing back!? Have you gone stark raving mad!?"

Rather than even attempt to tackle all the questions at once, Guzma grunted. "Well, I'm gonna move in, aren't I? I should have, like, a space in the house for my stuff... An' everybody else got a office, so why I can't I?"

It was as if Guzma had opened his mouth and started blabbing in an alien language; Faba could not piece together his logic whatsoever, until realized the implication. He echoed the phrase over his tongue, over-pronouncing it. " _Move in_."

"Yeah. After the wedding." Guzma collapsed into the office chair behind the desk, and the plush seat sighed out a breath of air. He wheeled around in it lazily. "Ain't like I'm stayin' in my suite, after we're married."

...So, all of Faba's fears were confirmed. He checked the door behind him, confirming it was sealed shut, and approached the desk, while feeling the constriction of his frenzied, stressed breathing. After watching the boy spin around a few more times, he clapped a hand flat on the dusty surface of the desk. "Young. _Man_." He spoke as sternly as he could; the effect of this made Guzma stop spinning and face him. "You cannot be serious."

The boy stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and shrugged. "Sure I am."

"You―!" Faba gesticulated and lowered his voice to hiss, "That's it? What was the point of this whole debacle? All the drama, all the intrigue―and what, you return as if nothing's happened!?"

To be scolded in this manner caused Guzma to put on a tremendous scowl; he sneered and growled at equal volume, "What's it matter to you?"

At this point, Faba began to realize how greatly he had miscalculated the impact of their last conversation. Despite the time that had passed, and despite having what Faba considered to be a common enemy, Guzma's perception of him hadn't adjusted to new circumstances. Faba hadn't been forgiven. A more socially-adept person might take this moment to apologize for prior offenses and explain themselves, but Faba chose to bluster instead. "Will you listen to me!? This is no time to put on an attitude―the situation's dire, and if you can't put aside your petty grievances long enough to see that―!"

Guzma swung his weight out of the chair, lifting himself onto his feet. "I dunno what you're talking about... Everything's fine."

This proved to be the single least convincing statement Faba had ever heard; he flailed and put his hands to his hips. "Is that _so_?"

"Yeah." Guzma flitted his eyes at him temperamentally. "Geez, I go home for a few days…"

"Guzma, what happened?"

The directness of the question startled them both; neither of them had anticipated Faba would have the guts to actually ask. Guzma averted his eyes, and walked over to the bookshelf on the left side of the room. He seemed to meditate on the various titles and items, before stuffing his hands into his pocket and dodging the question gruffly. "Nunna your business." He cocked his head to the side in a show of vague intimidation. "'Sides. We talked it out. That's what adults do, right? Talk things out."

Faba groaned. "...Good _lord_. It's worse than I thought. Guzma..."

Before Faba could get out another word, Guzma seized a book, pulled it from the shelf, and began dusting it off.

Faba, distracted by their argument, had forgotten where they stood, and Guzma's sudden violation of the bookshelf shocked him back into attention. He winced and took an anxious step forward, as if Guzma had just poked at something sacred. "Never mind that―regardless of what she told you, you should not be in here."

"Why not?" The boy looked around the office, noting the dust and neglect. "Nobody's using it."

Faba's voice hit a higher decibel. "That is not the point! Now put that back!"

Skeptically, Guzma looked at the book in his hand, then at Faba. He crumpled his brow, narrowing his eyes at him. "Looks like a buncha old junk to me."

Was Guzma antagonizing him on purpose? If he was, it was working; Faba's fingers dug into his coat pockets, clawing at their interior fabric. "It is not _junk_ and it is not _yours_!"

"Then whose is it?"

"It―" Faba stopped, glared back at him, and promptly stalked forward. "I know what you're doing," Faba said. "I see right through you!"

Guzma stiffened but said nothing.

When Faba attempted to take the book, Guzma pulled it out of reach. So Faba ranted, "Did she tell you to come in here? That would complete the picture!"

"I dunno what you're talking about!"

"Don't you?" No longer worried about being overheard, Faba blistered and shouted. "I endured it when she wrote him off! I put up with watching her lock away his memory and flirt her way through a parade of scoundrels―I even swore to myself I'd stay out of whatever degeneracy she had planned with you―but this!" In a daring fit of madness, he jabbed a finger into Guzma's chest. "Understand―you can marry her―produce awful hellions with her―take his office, take his children, take his wife, take the fruits of his labor―but by the gods above, you are _not_ him, and you will never― _never_ take his place!"

As he yelled, at last, the crescendo in his voice peaked, and the last word cracked. And while Guzma went silent, Faba took advantage of his stillness by snatching the book from his hands and slamming it back into place; he further went over to the desk, pulling the framed picture upright, and even circling around the desk to push the chair back into its original position.

* * *

In the ensuing, uncomfortable period of quiet, Guzma looked appropriately stunned by Faba's outburst. Faba, for his part, felt an immediate wave of humiliation; he shouldn't have said all that. Shouldn't have exposed his feelings on the matter. His heart pounded so hard he could hear its beat against his eardrum. Heat rose to his face.

Then, unexpectedly, Guzma broke the silence with a question. "This was Mohn's office?"

 _Brilliant! Perfect!_ Faba contemplated, for a moment, flinging his body out the window. _After all that, and he didn't even know!_ By some miracle, Faba cleared his throat, released a sigh of agony, and managed to recover his dignity enough to respond. "For God's― _yes,_ yes! Of course… it's the president's office, isn't it? Each president of Aether used it, at one point or another, including Mohn, as well as Madame's father."

"Oh." Guzma, sheepish in the face of emotions he didn't see coming, rubbed the back of his neck and traced his eyes around the room. He caught sight of something and pointed behind Faba, toward the far wall. "So that's her dad?"

Faba turned, saw a portrait hanging on the wall next to a cabinet, and glanced over the portrait, which featured a gently-smiling middle-aged man with combed, dark blonde hair, gentle blue eyes, and a fragile face. The portrait seemed to bore into him. "Y-yes, that's…" Faba redirected his gaze. "That's him. The original founder of Aether, Alban LeBlanc."

Guzma scratched his jaw and gave the picture another once-over. "What's he do now?"

"Monsieur LeBlanc is no longer with us."

"Where is he?"

Faba had forgotten how dense the boy could be, so he explained bluntly: "He's _deceased_."

"...Oh."

"Hasn't Madame told you all this already?"

Guzma shrugged. "She… doesn't talk about, like, family stuff with me."

"But she hasn't even given you a history primer on the Foundation?"

"I dunno. Maybe." Guzma admitted, "I mighta not been paying attention."

... _He gets_ _points for honesty_ , _at least._ Faba put a hand to his forehead, hoping to find a way to crawl out of this conversation with his proverbial tail between his legs. "Well… Anyhow… L-like I said… we ought to do…"

"Mr. Faba," Guzma said. He sounded more sure of himself, and more serious. He waited for Faba to turn around and look back at him before he articulated his question. "What kind of… person was Mohn?"

Faba was stunned. He could have refused to answer. He _wanted_ to ream him out, for even daring tread on the topic. But fair was fair―he had brought him up first. He tossed his head, put on a show of unhappiness, and crossed his arms as he reluctantly spoke. "Mohn was―" Faba almost stopped himself, as he would have any other day, but he bit his tongue and powered through it, speaking even as his throat rebelliously restricted. "Very popular… Brilliant, of course, but compassionate too, and kind, generous... the sort who could light up any room he entered…"

Guzma processed all of Faba's gushing and carelessly spat out, "You liked him, huh."

" _Everyone_ adored Mohn," Faba said, taking care to cover the exposure in his tone. The boy really did fling around words without thinking. "We were especially close friends."

"Right. I didn't mean…" (Guzma, realizing his mistake, rubbed the back of his neck and quickly changed the subject.) "Did he… Did he love her?"

"Of course he did." Faba's answer carried a twinge of offense. "He wouldn't have married her if he didn't."

"And… he was a good person."

Troubled by this line of questioning, Faba answered, "Yes, I would say so."

Guzma dragged his tongue thoughtfully along his bottom lip, eyebrows creased together. "Is that why she loved him?"

Faba lied. "I haven't put that much thought into it." He wondered for a minute what the blazes Guzma could be thinking. "...Guzma. What I said earlier… I'm not directing it at you, per se. I realize you're not aware of all the history at play…" He saw Guzma's blank look and continued. "You're not the first man to come here, you know. Others… After Mohn… They saw this place as an opportunity to line their own pockets. As if they could come here, woo some lonely widow and take Aether for themselves. Madame saw them for what they were. Called them vermin. I wouldn't dispute that characterization… In any case, she played games with them―made fools of them―and drove each of them away, one after another."

The boy didn't seem to like hearing this, but didn't interrupt.

"I sense, though, something different with you. What is it you want from her? It isn't Aether. Is it money? Status?" He read Guzma's reluctance to answer and huffed. "You've already interrogated me; it's only right I return the favor. So? Justify yourself."

To Faba's surprise, Guzma weighed his words for several long seconds before answering. As the young man pondered, his hand wandered to his pocket, from which he withdrew a now-softly-crumpled paper. He didn't unfold it, but passed it between his two hands, overturning it, gazing at it, and as this continued, his face gradually softened with introspection. Finally, he swallowed hard and a sound leaped from his throat. "I want…" He paused and flushed. "I wanna help her."

"That's ridiculous," Faba leaped to interject. "She's not a child, Guzma! And she's no damsel in need of rescue."

"Who else…" Guzma shook his head and crushed the paper in his hand. Repressed emotion swirled in his face. "She don't… she don't have nobody, and…"

"What do you mean? She has plenty of friends."

Guzma snapped back. "They aren't her _friends_. I _seen_ them. An' you said it: They all _want stuff_ from her, they don't even care about her―"

"Yes, yes, of course. You're the only one who understands her: is that what you've deluded yourself into thinking?"

"You don't _get it,_ " Guzma suddenly snarled. "What it's like. To not have _anybody_."

* * *

Faba still didn't respond, but privately, his thoughts snaked at lightning-speed through his cortex, triggering a long trail of memories he rarely chose to dredge up. He thought of himself―young Faba, who not unlike his present self, had an abrasive, profoundly unlikeable personality: anal-retentive, over-exact, unable to restrain himself from correcting others, admired by his teachers for his work ethic but loathed by his peers for out-showing them, protective of his accomplishments and earned titles, always perceived as showing off. In some ways, he chose his path, and so had no reason to complain: he knew a life of discipline, hard work, and intellectual prowess would be a lonely existence. But when you're young… Knowing this is no balm to the chronic sting of isolation. It is an all-encompassing pain, he thinks―like a disease in the bones and joints, that eats away at life.

Before he could stop himself, he remembers Mohn, carrying his lunch at the university cafe, standing over him. It was freshman year. Faba had already built a wall of books and papers at the table to ward off all invasion, but Mohn had never regarded such defenses.

 _Hey, don't I know you…? You're in my advanced physics class, right…? Mind if I sit…? What're you working on there…?_

* * *

Of course, Faba didn't breathe a word of any of this. Instead, he replied non-committally, "That's not a reason to st―" Just then, Faba's pager went off, and he twitched in surprise before drawing it out. He glanced over the message and muffled a curse. "I… I have to go." He tried to think of something he ought to say before leaving him this abruptly. He started for the door. When his hand met the doorknob, a thought at last struck him. He turned. "You ought to know this―I've already told Madame," he said, his voice going thin. "After the wedding… I'll be tendering my resignation." Faba awaited Guzma's response, but the young man didn't appear to have one aside from his perpetual, prying look. "I probably should have gone years ago. This place isn't what it was."

Guzma scratched his head. "Where are you gonna go?"

"I haven't the foggiest." He saw a faint glimmer of sympathy in Guzma's face―a surprise enough―and dismissed his unspoken concern. "I won't be out in the street, Guzma. At my age, I could probably comfortably retire."

The pager in Faba's pocket buzzed again. He pulled on the doorknob. Before he finally left, though, he looked one last time at Guzma's face, noting its strange vulnerability, its peace with fate. _This has all been a mistake,_ Faba thought to himself, though upon thinking it, he couldn't pinpoint exactly where it had all gone wrong―at what moment, exactly, he had failed Guzma as one human being to another.

Now, without any way of fixing it, Faba awkwardly quipped, "Well, don't do anything reckless."

"Like coming back here?" Guzma's expression didn't lighten, so if he was joking, it was an uncharacteristically dry crack. "Like marrying her?"

Faba tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the door frame, pondered what to say, and ultimately decided to say nothing: he just blinked his assent, slinked through the door, and left it ajar on his way out.

* * *

Guzma, once he returned to his suite, had a lot to think about.

He prepared for his thinking by first throwing open the door out to the balcony, letting in fresh air. He noted the bags piled near the door―attendants had brought up his luggage during his talks―but didn't bother to unpack, instead trundling into his bedroom, sitting at his desk. He pushed aside the laptop, dug out the letter from his pocket, and unfolded it on the desk's surface, smoothing it out with his palm. The ink smeared a little on his hands.

He read it again, and the words buzzed like insects in his head.

Somehow, from the very pit of his stomach and out to the tips of his hair, he could remember.

It felt like forever ago, and the image had faded and become an impression of light and shadow in his brain. But if he took it upon himself to focus, and took steps downward into passageways, he found her again. Seated in a throne of porcelain and crystal, shining, and perfect. A serene angel who could open untapped channels in him. And he thought of his dreams, too, where her brightness dimmed and she looked like a child, a scared, vulnerable bird he could crumple in his hands, breaking her needle bones into splinters.

...Had he been fooled? Or had he always suspected, always sensed the dark kernel in the heart of her, that she hurriedly buried under smiles and laughs and music? Now, looking back, it seemed obvious: her sadness was not incidental, nor temporary. It made her flesh prickle; it poisoned her blood. It had swallowed her ages ago―all he'd ever seen was what remained of her.

That's what he saw, in her room just now: a hollow shell, a mere suggestion of who must have once been… In his absence, she had shriveled up, so by the time he reached her again, she had already fallen into a childlike stupor, whining and fearful and needy. Guzma could easily dismiss it as more manipulation tactics―guilt-tripping, excuses―but a strain of her madness came across as harrowingly genuine. She crawled. She begged. She wept.

 _You aren't going to leave me again, are you?_

 _I'll do anything. Anything._

 _Just don't leave me alone._

He would die for her.

Was that strange? Was that illogical…? But all the same, that truth burned through him in terrible certainty; if he could, by some magic incantation, throw himself from a cliffside or into a fire, thereby breaking whatever curse had taken her, he would―and he knew it wasn't fair, wasn't what he was supposed to do, which is why he dared not tell anyone, not even her. But all the same, there was hard and ancient poetry in it, that thought of human sacrifice, that even the primal part of his brain could recognize.

Besides, it wasn't much of a price. Days ago, he was ready to throw himself away for free.

There was a message on his phone.

He had work to do.


	22. Crash and Burn

**Chapter 22: Crash and Burn**

By the time Gladion started the dispute, they were already running late. Perhaps, then, he shouldn't have said anything; in fact, the moment he said it, it dawned on him that he would not win this argument.

Still, he couldn't help himself.

"All I'm suggesting, is that it may be communicating the wrong message."

Lillie, who had just stepped off the ladder to her loft and given Gladion a demonstrative twirl in her garish purple dress, frowned and put her hands to her hips. "'Message'?"

"It comes across as… condoning."

"Well, _I_ think you're being silly," Lillie huffed. "It's a wedding, and I want to wear something nice."

Gladion chomped down on a snide comment, (an exasperated " _girls_ " sat at the tip of his tongue), and he yielded to his internal voice's warning against saying any more. Certainly, between the two of them, only one looked like they were ready for a wedding celebration: Gladion, hard-headed and stubborn as ever, showed up to Kukui's lab wearing exactly the same clothes he always wore, and Lillie, who had gone shopping the day before, greeted him in new, fancy attire. Lillie, if nothing else, had come to relish in her freedom to dabble in different styles, even starting to depart from her white-and-eggshell-blue palette.

Gladion had worried about this. Ever since getting the call from her, and as they collaborated on their plan of action, he could not quite bring her to his mindset. He wanted to stay serious and dispassionate. This was a business matter, he kept saying. But there the girl stood―frilly skirt and white purse, dress shoes and finely-braided hair.

While Gladion kept the remainder of his disapproval quiet, Kukui's Rockruff, excited by the presence of the two siblings, scurried between Lillie's legs, yapping for attention. She yelped and fixed her skirt. "I know! I know! You haven't had supper yet―"

" _Lillie_. We have to go now."

Before she could make excuses, there was a knock at the front door. She jumped and ran for it. "Just a minute!"

Out at the front of Professor Kukui's ramshackle lab, overlooking a serene sea, an elderly neighbor stood on the stoop, waiting to be invited inside. Lillie, by her easy smile and quick permittance, apparently knew him.

"Oh, Mr. Mahi!" She fumbled, and just remembered to wave. "Alola!"

The man, amused, stepped inside and waved in return. "Alola, Miss Lillie. I'm not late, am I?"

"No―you're right on time!" She looked to Gladion, almost as if ready to introduce them to each other, but she nervously batted her eyes and bowed to the neighbor instead. "Th-thank you so much! For taking care of the place while I'm away. I know it was last minute―"

The neighbor waved a hand and shook his head. "It's no trouble. Besides, you said it's a family emergency, right?" His eyes wandered over to, and settled momentarily on, Gladion.

"Y-yes! Of course. I don't know when I'll be back, but the professor should be returning on Thursday. If―! If you need to call me―"

He laughed and stooped down to scratch the chin of the Rockruff, who had turned its attention to this new visitor. "I'm sure I'll manage, miss. You be careful now."

* * *

The sun would be setting soon. If they hoped to reach Hano Hotel's docks before the ship left, they would need to catch the very next shuttle out from Mele'mele. So when they stepped out onto the sand and started their way up the hill, they didn't have time to talk. In fact, this silence resumed until they boarded the shuttle, threw their modest luggage under their seats and sat next to one another, and felt the boat's motor pull them out to sea.

Gladion watched Lillie for a few moments; she was distracted with pensive thought, and staring out at the water as it rolled by. Her legs nervously bounced against the seat, and she brought out her Yungoos to let it curl up in her lap and calm her. It didn't seem to work.

He rather intrusively put his hand inside Lillie's purse to extract the envelope in question. He still could hardly believe it, even when Lillie first revealed it days earlier. He opened it with his thumb, rested his chin against his hand, and contemplated the note's contents.

No mistaking it. In gilded font, words of invitation…

Another surge of skepticism and suspicion rose in him, so he broke the silence. He turned to his sister. "Lillie."

She looked up and blinked at him questioningly.

"Can you tell me _exactly_ what he said?"

"He… I…" Lillie bunched up her Yungoos tighter against her. She averted her eyes. "I don't remember _exactly_."

"Lillie."

"I― I'm telling the truth! All I remember for sure is―" She screwed her eyes shut in concentration. "He said… He wanted us there."

"But he didn't say why. He didn't say what to expect when we got there. Or whether Mother has put him up to something―"

"She wouldn't," Lillie said hurriedly. "I… don't think. But, no. He didn't say."

"...This better not be some idiotic plan on his part."

Gladion could tell from the way she sucked in air that she wanted to contradict him. It was just more evidence to support his already-cemented suspicion that Lillie and Guzma had been in more regular contact than she let on. Somehow… For some reason… She had an impulse to defend him.

"Could you at least hear something in his voice? How did he sound?"

"He sounded…"

Gladion waited anxiously.

"I… I don't know." She shook her head in defeat. "I'm not sure."

...She was holding out on him. Keeping secrets. And though he knew it, and could have called her out on it, he frowned and decided to let it go. He slipped the invitation letter back into her purse; she adjusted the bag wordlessly, pulling it to her opposite hip, away from him. The satin hem of her dress rippled in the bit of wind that passed through the open windows of the shuttle, and the Yungoos started squirming and growling to show its discomfort at having to sit still.

Gladion considered putting in his earphones and listening to some music, but instead, he chose to absorb the white noise of cleaved and churning water, and thought on things he hadn't dared consider until now.

If Gladion put his thought into it and traced the passage of his childhood, he would characterize it as _uneven_ at best. Unlike Lillie, who was so young when Father vanished that she could hardly remember Mother's immediate response to his spiriting away, Gladion knew his mother's grief. He knew its appearance and its sound. Of his formative memories as a young child, many of them contained pieces of her, flung about like shards of glass slicing any unfortunate creature who wandered too close. There is nothing as harrowing, he decided, as watching your own mother fall apart without being able to stop it.

Though both Lillie and himself were spared the worst of her, usually whisked away during the worst episodes by a wary and attentive Mrs. Wicke, they were not always spared trauma. In one instance, Gladion sat in Mother's office for a routine meeting, as he often did, and as suddenly and unpredictably as a clap of thunder, she had her hands on Faba's throat. He could still remember the sounds of her screams. The look in her face. The way she swore―swore that she was going to kill Faba then and there. Of course, Gladion was immediately yanked from the room by staff, and later even Faba addressed him and downplayed it ("She's very stressed," the man glossed. "She's not herself"), but the boy was so shaken that he could hardly sleep that night.

Yet with time, she dusted off her crippling grief. She took control again―wrestling order from chaos, and stabilizing herself enough to convince the Board the elect her President. It struck Gladion now that this slavish devotion to order had consumed other parts of her life, in particular her interactions with her children. Everything had to have its place, exactly. Every hair. Every word. Every stitch. And should someone violate her protocol, even to slightest degree, they were considered in allegiance with the very anarchy that had swallowed her beloved. Lillie survived well in this harsh environment, as she was a sweet, pliable, conscientious girl who only wanted to please. Gladion fared worse. His stubbornness surfaced early, and Lusamine could only interpret his unwillingness to obey every mandate as personal rejection, hatred, _treachery_. And being too sly to openly heap abuse on him in retaliation, she resorted to more subtle forms of warfare.

As small children, Lillie and Gladion got along well-enough. They had to, after all: rarely did they have contact with other children on the island, save for the occasional visits from staff or guests' families. In schoolwork, in play, in living at the Foundation, the two synchronized; they developed their own games, even their own secret language, which they could babble to one another while adults scratched their heads. But Mother, prone to bizarre fits of jealousy (perhaps threatened by their closeness, thinking it might result in an alliance against her), and seeking a way to make her disapproval of Gladion's behavior apparent, began to use division tactics. Lusamine did what she could to separate them: diverging their schedules, so that they had little time together; dedicating more hours to one-on-one time with each child; whispering slander and flattery to each of them to build resentment and turn them against each other.

She knew her children enough to know the best strategy: Lillie, sensitive and fragile, was especially vulnerable to unfair comparisons ("Gladion's more of an intellectual than you are, dear…") and feeling like a burden ("You should leave him be; he finds you a bother"); Gladion, responsible and prone to feelings of superiority, she found more susceptible to accusations ("You aren't putting in your best effort") and abject praise ("You're special, Gladion; you're not like other children..."). Worst of all, she played blatant favorites whenever the three of them were together―doting on Lillie exclusively, giving her presents, fawning over her, _how pretty, what a sweet child you are, my sweet, my gentle, my lily of the valley..._

It worked wonders on the two. Her two well-dressed marionettes, dancing for their mother, clashing and swaying to the precise movements of her hands.

The more Gladion thought on it, the more he marveled: after two years, and miles away, Mother's impact could be felt even now. He asked Lillie one question, and the wall came up again, wedged between them as if it had never really gone.

His chest tightened. He suddenly felt a wave of frustration, and anger, and jealousy, and remorse all at once, in the form of a knotted lump in his throat. He crossed his arms and took a hard stab at the barrier. "Lillie."

She looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She wrinkled her brow and mouth with confusion. "Sorry…? A-about what?"

"It's been hard. Talking to each other. And I think I know why." He studied the lingering fear in her expression and shook his head. "When I ran from Aether Paradise… I didn't consider how my decision would affect you."

"I… I don't…"

"No… That's not true. I did consider it. But I thought for sure she wouldn't take it out on you. She was always easy on you, and I…"

She tensed and sat up straight. Her Yungoos hopped down onto the floor, startled by her movement. "Gladion…."

His folded arms braced harder against his chest, and he clenched his teeth, grinding them. "I shouldn't have left you alone. To deal with her all by yourself. Maybe…" He put his hand to his face, which strained with dark and bitter thought. "Maybe I shouldn't have left."

Without warning, Lillie jumped to her feet and cried out a protest. "No, you can't say that! You―you had to! To protect Null!"

"I saved Null, but what about everyone else? The other beast-killers… Cosmog… You..."

"But you had no choice!" Floundering, she tugged on the strap of her purse and hiccuped breaths for trying to form words. At last, she quaked and blurted out, "I― I'm the one who should be sorry!"

It was Gladion's turn to be confused; he shot her a baffled look, and saw the intensity of her pain as she explained herself.

"I'm not… Strong like you are."

( _Strong_? Gladion found himself amused by the description―him, strong, as he felt his nerves turn to ice, his throat to fire, and his hands to trembling leaves.)

"When she… was hard on you… I never stood up for you. I was so afraid―afraid that she would turn on me, too. But because of me… You suffered. And Nebby suffered. Because I was weak."

...Was he to contradict her? She wasn't wrong―cruel though it might be to say. As much as Gladion was callous, she was frail.

But Lillie hadn't finished. She stammered further, "A-and that's… That's why I want to be strong now. So no one else gets hurt."

The silence remained for a time, all sounds of her harsh breathing carried by the hiss of water and wind. In time, her Yungoos scraped its paw cloyingly at her ankle, and she answered it by leaning down to gather it back in her arms. She waited only a little while longer, thinking Gladion would respond to her somehow, but his eyes had since traveled to the floor and not budged.

She sighed and sat back down. It must have been a few minutes later when, as she stared straight ahead, she whispered, mostly to herself, " _No one else gets hurt._ "

And Gladion knew, to his discomfort, that she meant, _not even Mother_.

* * *

Arriving late turned out to be the best option, because it meant that by the time they reached the ship, all the guests had been shuffled into the dining area, and the boarding platform was blissfully empty and free of drama. Had they been spotted right away, one could only imagine the outbursts and attention they would have received. For now, they strolled right up to the ticketmaster, with only staff in sight, and boarded the ship without incident.

After handing off their luggage and reaching the top of the stairs, however, an attendant in a snappy white uniform greeted them with evident nerves. He had a young and fidgety look, which made Gladion wonder if he had been alerted in some way.

His intuition was backed up by the attendant's immediate, breathless question: "You're her kids, right?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gladion saw Lillie's hands clutch at her purse strap again. He replied evenly, "Yes."

A bead of sweat formed at the attendant's brow; he glanced over his shoulder.

"Is something wrong?"

The young man looked caught. "Huh? No! Uh…" He studied the two children, one after the other, pondering his strategy, and finally gestured at them placatingly. "So, if you don't mind, just standing _right_ there for a minute? Don't move."

...This wasn't a good sign.

Even though they didn't answer him, he blurted a "thanks" and hurried toward the dining hall. They complied with his request, standing awkwardly near the boarding dock and watching the hectic movements of the cruise ship's staff around them. The two had reached the boat just in time―they appeared to be readying for departure.

When Gladion searched Lillie's expression, he found paralyzing fear.

"You shouldn't worry," he said.

She looked at him―and across the deck, an older male voice cried out after them.

" _Young masters_!"

The two turned their heads and found the entire flock of directors heading right their way.

Gladion recognized most, though not all of them. Docteur Morel, the older, sterner woman of the group, had only been elected into the board a year and a half ago, so while he could remember her face from previous contexts, her name escaped him. The group, as a whole, had always been polite and respectful to the children, and though Gladion suspected they acted as such out of fear, neither he nor Lillie had any reason to begrudge them. Lusamine's minions they may be, but like all of Aether, they followed her without malice.

For now, they carried surprised faces, overshadowed with false, reassuring smiles.

"My!" It was Monsieur LeRoux's voice; Gladion could tell by its blandness. The well-suited man cleared his throat into a gloved hand. "It has been some time since we've seen either of you."

Lille smiled and did a polite curtsey, but Gladion felt no need to offer a similar gesture. He crossed his arms and agreed, "Indeed it has, Mr. LeRoux."

"What a pleasure!" Madame Blanchard pushed forward to put hands on both of their shoulders; she beamed to show her thrill. "Madame President had told us you wouldn't make it. Does she know? Or are you going to surprise her?"

Gladion honestly didn't know, and as he contemplated how to answer, Lillie cut in to say, "You won't spoil it, will you?"

"Oh!" Blanchard let go. "Of course not, dears."

By now, Gladion caught on to the fact that they were all giving his clothes a skeptical look, though they were too courteous to bring it up.

Blanchard spoke again. "And how has school been for you both?"

The two raised their eyebrows at her. "Is that the excuse she gave for us?" Gladion asked.

"Hmm? 'Excuse'?" The group collectively frowned, and Blanchard, speaking for all them, explained, "Your mother told us you were attending boarding school."

Gladion and Lillie glanced at each other. That Lusamine had lied to the directors was no shock; the truth of their running away would be humiliating to confess to her peers. In looking at each other, the children silently reached an agreement.

So Lillie replied first. "I ran away," she said. "I've been living with another family."

Gladion didn't give them a chance to express their stunned disbelief, and spoke next. "I ran away as well. I'm currently living out of a motel."

"Good heavens!" Blanchard popped out a fan from her purse and flapped it unhappily at her face. "Are… are you joking?"

"I'm afraid not, Madame."

In the midst of their puzzled silence, Monsieur Dupont snorted a dry laugh. "Well," he said, lifting the glass he'd been holding and ignoring the other board members' looks of despondence, "that all sounds educational to me."

The others shifted, visibly displeased with his outburst.

"What? Striking out on their own… Having adventures… It's what I did at their age―"

Blanchard smiled to resist the temptation to snap at him, and leaned down, purring sweetly, "Well, in that case… You'd better see your mother straight away. She must be worried."

"I think you're right," Gladion said. He glanced past the shoulders of the directors and saw, far off at the other side of the boat's platform, Plumeria and Nanu watching them. Lillie had probably seen them, too. He grit his teeth, weighed his options, and nodded to Blanchard solemnly. "Actually, our first order of business is with our future father-in-law."

For a few seconds, the poor woman froze with a stupefied expression on her face; finally, she cried out in realization. "Oh, yes! Of course." She put a hand to her forehead and tried to laugh it off. "How funny! I haven't gotten used to thinking of him that way―"

"If you're looking for either of them, they're not in the dining hall with everyone else," Pierre interrupted. "They're together in Madame's suite. Surely one of the crew can show you the way."

"There's nothing to worry about," Blanchard continued fretfully. Something about implying Guzma and Lusamine were alone the night before the wedding made her anxious. "She's been sick since last week―honestly, she should have pushed the date, but, well, when she makes her mind up about things…"

Plumeria, as the directors rattled on, deigned to wave at them in a desperate attempt at grabbing their attention. Gladion wordlessly shook his head at her and motioned for Lillie to go the other direction, toward a nearby attendant. "Then we'd better get going. _Messieurs_ , _mesdames_."

Though the directors nervously gawked at one another, Blanchard obliged his goodbye with a farewell of her own. She waved as they departed. "Well.. Master Gladion and Lillie― _bonne chance_. Don't get into too much trouble, _oui_?"

They hurried off and could hear the gasps and exclamations of dismay being released in their absence. ( _"Goodness―What_ ** _is_** _going on around here?"_ ) Gladion did his best to press Lillie forward, and after a quick word with the attendant, they were guided to a staircase leading to the residential suites at the second floor. But just as they started to climb them, a voice below halted their progress.

"Hey!"

Lillie, oblivious to Gladion's purposeful avoidance, cheerily leaned over the railing and greeted the tag-alongs. "Plumeria! Mr. Nanu!"

While Nanu stood a ways off, trying not to get involved, Plumeria looked up at them, arms crossed. She focused her glare on Gladion. "Just gonna ignore me?"

"Sorry," Gladion said, insincerely. He didn't turn to look at her, instead facing the stairway.

"Uh-huh. Since when were you two planning on being here? Sure didn't tell me. Are you here to crash?"

"No."

"We were invited," Lillie added.

"Seriously? By who?"

Just before Lillie tried to answer, Gladion reached out and took her shoulder, urging her back around. He hissed, lower than Plumeria could possibly hear, " _We have to go._ "

Plumeria saw this secrecy and clearly didn't like it. She sneered, taking offense. "Hey, what's your deal?"

Gladion finally turned toward her and gave one, sharp scowl. "Sorry. Family business."

"'Family business'?" Plumeria scoffed. "I thought you gave up on that witch."

The two siblings stared at her a moment, unaffected by her name-calling, until Gladion blandly proffered as he started up the stairs again, "We'll catch you at dinner."

(As they walked away, he could hear Plumeria complain to Nanu: "Can you believe this?"

"Yeah," Nanu agreed, "a real travesty. I'm going back to the bar.")

* * *

The last time Gladion felt this kind of fear, it was when he boarded the elevator to reach his mother at Aether Paradise. Like then, his stomach ascended quicker than his body, lifting and fluttering. His legs shook. His heart beat in skittish, frantic throbs. Without the adrenaline pumping through him, he might have even locked in place, incapable of movement. Initially, he strode with some confidence, arms at his sides, but the further they walked across the interior access of the residential hall, the deeper he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

The attendant, without warning, stopped a few feet in front of them and settled in front of a door.

He was about to reassure Lillie―but she grabbed his arm before he could get a word out, and squeezed.

The attendant knocked on the door, and after only a moment's wait, it cracked open; neither of the children could see who it was from where they stood, but a hoarse, gravelly voice emerged from the darkened inner room.

"It's Madame's children," the attendant said, apparently answering whatever it was that had been mumbled.

A pregnant pause. The door suddenly slammed shut, causing all three of them some alarm, but just as quickly, it opened again, and they caught sight of a faint sliver of Guzma's face. "Be a minute," he said, which served to explain why the door went on to shut one more time.

The bewildered attendant tried to offer the children an encouraging smile, but they gave no sign of being reassured.

Then, at last, Guzma emerged.

As the older man dismissed the attendant, Gladion examined and made recursory conclusions. Guzma, despite being holed up in the suite the entire evening, wore a formal suit, though at some point he had discarded the suit jacket and tie: black slacks and polished shoes, and what must be an uncomfortably-warm lavender dress shirt (in fact, he had unfastened the first few buttons from his neck, and sloppily rolled up his sleeves, all in an effort to relieve himself from the muggy evening air).

Gladion moved his attention past Guzma's clothing and to his body language, which proved far more informative. No wonder Lillie wouldn't confide how Guzma sounded: he looked miserable, and probably sounded it, too. Eyes glossy, with heavy bags beneath them; hair brushed mussily back, so that it fell lopsided on one side of his head; skin pallid; breaths heavy. Gladion had thought himself nervous, but apparently, his own anxiety paled in comparison to that of the groom-to-be. The young man didn't even greet them―he simply shifted his weight in place, distracted by unseen figments in the air.

Lillie decided to gently get his attention. "Alola, Mr. Guzma."  
He snapped his head in her direction, startled by her cheer. He then meekly waved a lowered hand at her in greeting. "Uh. Yeah. Hey." He agonized over his choice of words, and added, "Thanks… For coming."

Gladion noticed quickly that Guzma was avoiding looking at him, and fidgeted with unexpressed shame. After all, their last conversation climaxed with a punch to Gladion's jaw.

"Is Mother all right?" Lillie asked.

"Your… your mom?" Guzma glanced over his shoulder at the suite door.

Gladion clarified, "The directors said she's sick."

"Oh. She's… She's fine, mostly. She just, you know, needs a lotta… _Attention_." This obvious dodge, accompanied with nervous scratching at his neck, didn't put the children much at ease. He tacked on a detail: "She's got a nurse in there with her. So it's okay."

"...She's still that worried about appearances?" Gladion marveled aloud. When Guzma didn't understand his jab, he raised an eyebrow. "A chaperone…?"

"H-hey!" Guzma jutted his eyes over to Lillie, then shielded his face with his hand to lock eyes privately with Gladion. He didn't look very intimidating as color flushed his face, but he hissed under his breath, " _Shut up_!"

Lillie, blissfully unaware of what they were bickering about, asked with sudden intensity, "Does she know we're here?"

Guzma looked at her. He hesitated. "Uh…" They thought this was the beginning of confessed bad news, but the young man glanced up and down the hallway, searching for other human beings. At last, he said, "Look… Let's go outside. There's stuff... we gotta talk about."

The exterior residential walkway they retreated to faced the Hano Resort, which at this time of night turned to a starry dappling of illuminated windows and balconies, and its plaza shone with the white glow of the street lamps at the plaza's fountains and pools. With the wedding guests onboard, only a few tourists could be spotted entering and exiting the hotel.

Guzma settled his back against the balcony railing and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He watched the two children for a moment, blinking and frowning as he did, seemingly trying to measure their emotional state.

Tired of waiting, Gladion prodded, "So, Mr. Guzma?"

"She knows you're here," Guzma clumsily transitioned.

"And why _are_ we here?"

"Your mom's gettin' married. Figured you'd wanna be here."

The answer did not prove very convincing.

"I know… This ain't exactly normal, but… Look, some stuff's happened, and I did a lotta thinking, so this is what I'm doing. Maybe you came to stop me…" Guzma paused his rambling to collect his thoughts; he saw their confusion, and his expression softened. "But I made up my mind. Okay?"

"Is that all?" Gladion asked, a hint of snideness to his tone.

Guzma pressed a hand on the railing behind him and squeezed it. Embarrassment creased his face. "...No. 'Cause… Really? I… decided on somethin' else, too… And that's why you're here, because I decided…"

Tension choked the air; Gladion could feel Lillie pressing close to his shoulder.

In the moment before he came out with it, they couldn't read the mixture of emotions in his face, but he bunched his shoulders tightly, and clenched his throat, so that the words came out taut and strained. "After the wedding's over… You're both gonna come to Aether Paradise," he said. "You're gonna live with us."

* * *

...Silence.

...Deathly silence.

Gladion felt his head whirl and swim. The two of them paled, stunned, flabbergasted, unable to speak. The progress of the silence agitated Guzma, who waited for an awkward amount of time for them to reply; he searched their faces and, displeased with their responses, tried to amend his statement.

"I mean… It ain't like… You gotta be there all the time," Guzma said, his words hurrying as he sensed their impending resistance. "You can still―! Do whatever you want, on the islands… But you'll have someplace to be, you know? You'll have a home."

Lillie managed to speak first. "I have a home."

The first sign of frustration protruded from Guzma's brow. He barked, "You have a couch! And a motel room!"

"... _This_ is your plan?" Gladion could hardly get words out, he was so struck by disbelief. "Marry her, and then sweep us up into your farce? So that we can all play house and pretend to be a happy family again?"

"That's not…"

"Are you crazy? Does Mother know about this?"

"Yeah," Guzma said, though his eyes shifted a little, to show he withheld something in his answer. "Yeah, she… Knows."

For a second, Gladion had to fight the urge to scream out in indignant rage. He planted his hand to his face, absorbing the quaking of his palm. He counted backwards… And decided to do what he vowed he wouldn't. "Then I'd like to speak with her."

Obviously, Guzma hadn't anticipated this request. He floundered and puffed out his chest. "Wh-what, you don't believe me?"

"She never agrees to anything unless it's to her advantage. So, yes, I don't believe you, and I want to speak with her _now_."

A hideous growl leaped from Guzma's throat; Gladion nearly thought he was about to receive another sock to the jaw for his stubbornness, though thankfully, after Guzma kicked the railing behind him with his heel, he simmered down enough to merely yell out his exasperation. "I'm not lying to you! Okay! She does know, she just…" The man crumpled. "She just…! I don't think she's ready to talk yet."

"You mean," Gladion corrected, "that she's still not on speaking terms with us."

Guzma didn't reply, which told Gladion everything he wanted to know.

"Why would we want to live with someone who still despises us?"

"She doesn't―!" Guzma retorted miserably. "Look, she'll get over it―And I'll be there. So it'll be different."

"Mr. Guzma. I know you mean well, but…" Gladion shook his head. "There's a reason we left."

"She's getting better."

"You honestly expect us to believe that?"

Suddenly, Guzma turned his attention on Lillie, who had remained eerily quiet for the most of the conversation. "Isn't this what you wanted?" he demanded.

She opened her mouth to answer him.

"You don't know what she wants," Gladion interrupted.

"She told me! Aren't I right!" Guzma, again, locked eyes with her. "You want everything to go back. To the way it was!"

―And still, Gladion: "That's the problem! It's going to go right back to what it was―"

While the two boys argued, Lillie looked between them, over and over, trying in vain to find pause to insert herself, until, at last, she borrowed a gesture from her mother. She stomped her foot hard, clacking the sole of her shoe against the wooden deck, and yelled, "I―I have something to say! If you don't mind!"

Startled, the boys immediately went silent and gawked at her.

Lillie blushed. "I'm sorry! For yelling! But I can speak for myself!" As Gladion sheepishly looked away, she stepped forward, twisting her hands about her purse strap and trying to appear as adult and unafraid as possible. Determination filled her voice, though her volume steadily lowered. "M-Mr. Guzma, I'm sorry―I think I gave you the wrong impression," Lillie said. "Of course I wish I could go back. If I could come home… If Mother could be the way I remember her, when I was little… It would be a dream come true. But you can't promise that, can you?"

She clearly expected an answer; Guzma muttered, while shrugging hopelessly, "I dunno."

"Then, what _can_ you promise me?"

Gladion sensed something wrong with the question. He turned, brim with displeasure. "Lillie."

But she ignored him, focusing entirely on Guzma. The older man stared back at her, clearly confused, but the gears clacked in his head, grinding together forceful thought; he puzzled, chewed the inside of his cheek, and tensed, like he knew everything hinged on his answer. He reached up, combed his fingers through his mussed, black hair, and sucked in a breath. "I'll.." He grimaced. "I'll do my best. To help her. That's all I can really do, ya know?"

Lillie kept eyes on him. Inspected his sincerity. Went almost completely still, like stone. Then, her shoulders noticeably relaxed. "Mr. Guzma... I never got to thank you… For saving Mother from the Nihilego." She dipped her eyes and tilted her chin downward, allowing a moment of silence before continuing. "When I saw you… risk your life for her… Maybe that's why I… Convinced myself this would be different. All the same… You really care about her… Don't you?"

Guzma couldn't bring himself to answer, but his eyes rounded, his jaw set, his fingers curled. Lillie watched him, further scrutinizing him...

Then, after some time of breathless waiting, she shut her eyes, air shaking out of her in the form of a whisper. "...Okay."

The ambiguity of the declaration made them both twitch.

"I… I trust you. If you want me to go… I'll go."

* * *

A violent ripple of emotion shot through them: Guzma mostly stiffened in place, overcome in the face of such a moving and unexpected expression of faith; Gladion, in opposition, shot out with wanton physicality, both by grabbing Lillie by the arm and exclaiming aloud.

" _Absolutely not!_ " Gladion was _livid_. Anger coursed through him so powerfully that he had to check his grip on her, to ensure he hadn't hurt her in his lashing out. He gave her an exasperated glare. "Have you gone crazy, too?"

"Hey," Guzma complained, "it's her decision, y'know―"

Gladion disregarded Guzma's self-interested bawling. "You've gone through enough," he told her. "It's _wrong_. It's wrong of him to ask you to do this. Can't you see that!?"

Apparently exhausted of her self-expression, she simply trembled and avoided his eyes.

"Way I remember it," Guzma jeered haughtily, "you didn't have a problem leaving her at Aether before."

But Gladion didn't stumble over Guzma's accusation; he effortlessly continued, "He's right, Lillie. I should have protected you, and I didn't… But that's why I can't let you do this. I've failed you once. I don't plan on doing it again. _You aren't stepping foot on that island._ "

Lillie, crushed by his reasoning, looked torn between taking it all back―or obstinately declaring her own rights. She glanced back and forth at Gladion and Guzma, paralyzed by her inability to choose, lest she hurt either's feelings. However, before she could even decide, Guzma exploded.

"Fine! Do what you want! It doesn't change anything!" He snarled and stomped on the railing, threatening to buckle it under force. The two children flinched. "You think I care!? I'm tryin' to help _you_ out!"

Lillie reached out to calm him. "Mr. Guzma…"

"You're her _kids_! I thought you'd actually give a rip what happens to her!"

Lillie stepped back, withdrawing her hand―saw his flailing, impotent rage―and her face fell. Whether it was his hurtful words, or his anger, or Gladion's reasoning―she didn't say. In fact, she didn't say anything at all. She turned toward the stairs leading down and fled.

"Lillie―"

"Kid! Wait!"

They watched her go as their cries fell fruitlessly on her, until she disappeared down the steps, and the sound of her shoes clacking on the floor faded.

"See what you did?" Guzma hissed.

Gladion didn't indulge his obvious deflection of blame. He crossly glared Guzma down. "Did you _really_ expect this to work?"

The older man's face twinged vulnerably.

"If it is as you say, and that woman agreed to this… Ugh, I can't even think how you would gain her consent on this, unless she really is that desperate."

"I got my ways," Guzma bragged recklessly.

"What do you mean?"

"Uh…"

"You mean you _made_ her consent."

"It was…" Guzma grumbled, now realizing his mistake; he roughly scratched behind his ear. "I made a deal."

"How!? You don't have any leverage. How could you possibly―"

Guzma turned to the ocean, pushing himself hard against the railing.

The unspoken thing suddenly hit Gladion. "No. It's you. _You're_ the leverage."

"She doesn't wanna be alone. When I pushed that… When she knew I could leave if I wanted…" Guzma shrugged, and a small, bitter smirk lifted the edge of his mouth. "How's she gonna say 'no'?"

"So, emotional extortion."

Guzma sensed the accusational tone, and it rankled him. "What?"

"Finding her weakness. Exploiting her vulnerability, to force compliance out of her. It's exactly what she would do."

Guzma must have deduced he was right, because he refused to argue, instead rhetorically ducking. "I'm gonna help her. I'm…"

"Mother doesn't take threats lightly. She's going to retaliate. She's going to make your life hell."

Guzma shook his head and turned away from him. "...Doesn't matter. I can take it."

Gladion desperately wanted to all-out berate him―what was he thinking!?―but he chose a more diplomatic option. At the very least, if he could find Guzma's motivation, perhaps he could reason him down. "I've known you to have harebrained plans of action before," Gladion said, alluding to their months of working together. "But I'm awfully curious what inspired this."

Guzma countered crankily, "I ain't gotta explain myself to you."

"Is it guilt? Or are you afraid to be on that island alone with her―that you need to recruit her children to keep misery company?"

"What do you know? You're just a dumb little kid!" Guzma snapped. Suddenly, though, his voice strained, weakened. "But it ain't― it ain't your fault―"

For a time, neither said anything. Guzma fixed his arms over the railing, entirely slumped over, and fiddled with the gold watch braced at his wrist. Its sheen seemed to mesmerize him, pulling him away from the coarse reality surrounding him―the thick breeze coming across the docks, the buzz of wildlife from the forests beyond the resort, the ever-distant patter of civilian footsteps. Though Guzma didn't want to speak, forcing his mouth shut only proved to build up pressure, rather than extinguish it: he squirmed, cast a dejected eye on the young boy whom law would soon have him call _son_ , and winced.

"Your sister―I guess she thinks I'm a good person or something―but I really ain't… I've never done nothin' for nobody. I hurt people. I was born doin' that― I've always done that―" His confession rambled, veered off into burbling nonsense. He faced away to roughly wipe at his face. "See? I know you ain't never gonna see me―as anything but a creep― But that's okay, 'cuz I'm not tryin' to be your dad or something. But I gotta grow up. 'Cuz you're just a kid, and I'm the adult, aren't I? So I gotta― it's my job, isn't it? My responsibility. I hafta take care of you."

There it was. His reasoning: twisted, tortured, bloodied by unfixable regrets. Gladion stared at him. The man―it was unfitting, calling him that, though that's what he was―stood a little ways off, twice his age, easily twice his size, arms roped with the lean, cruel muscle that had threatened before to break him. Yet, despite every element of monstrosity, Gladion could not help but find him… pitiable.

Gladion dropped his eyes. "Mr. Guzma. You took on a great risk to make this offer―but we can't accept it. Our family… it's not your job to fix us."

Above them, a blast of air and sound shot out from the ship's exhaust. The first horn blew, and down in the lower quarters, the ship's crew began their busy movements, racing to their posts. In several minutes, the loading stairs would be folded up, and in a few more, the ship would blast its final horn and sever its tie to the dock, pushing its weight into the dark open sea. Guzma looked up at the sky, which had finally began to break out in starlight. He sighed, as if the horn had released something in himself. "...Y'all came just in time," he mused as he listened to the revving hiss of the ship's engine. "Guess you better hurry, though, if you wanna get off again."

But Gladion shook his head. "There's no hurry. We're not leaving."

Guzma looked mildly surprised by this news, and just as Gladion started for the stairs himself, Guzma lifted himself and said after him, "Hey―wait a sec."

"...Yes?"

"Your sister. T-tell her… I didn't mean it. I was just hyped up, and…"

Gladion grunted unsympathetically. "You're an adult; tell her yourself."

* * *

All Guzma could feel when Gladion left was the shaking in his hands. At first, he attributed it to the rumble of the ship as it roared to life, but he wrapped his fingers into fists, and the trembling swallowed him up: all the humiliation of defeat, the sting of being nothing.

Guess he was alone after all.

"Stupid," Guzma uttered first, that no one above or below could possibly hear him. Then, in flashes of moonlight, their faces hit him again: Lillie's hurt, and Gladion's angry dismissal. He fixed his fists against his temples to fight against the throbbing, but it did no good, nor did the subsequent, ferocious pounding of his knuckles against his scalp. " _Stupid_!"

The last cry echoed, booming out across the ship. No doubt some of the crew―maybe even Gladion, still descending down the stairs―had heard him, but he didn't care. He absolved his only bit of shame by smashing his foot against the railing and huffing his way back toward the interior hall.

Her children could leave her. Ditch her. Abandon her. They had already done it before, so he didn't know why he expected any different.

So while they went to eat their fill and navigate the other wedding guests, he returned to the suite, back to the dim light and weak voices that buzzed in his head.


	23. Entropy

**Chapter 23: Entropy**

* * *

Aside from the soft glow of moonlight slipping in through the window, the only light source in Lusamine's suite was the small lamp at the end table next to her bed. For that evening, it had served to illuminate her resting form, which had hardly moved since earlier that afternoon. The light painted both her body and bed covering in a monochrome shade of light gold, so that in her stillness, she seemed to melt into shadow, a matte of peaceful folds.

Guzma had hardly left her side since boarding, a consequence of her frailty and clinginess; it came as no surprise to him, as she continued this behavior from where it left off on Aether Paradise. Skipping dinner had shocked him, though. Surely, he thought, she'd muster up enough will to show off herself to the public… It was her element.

Yet she showed no sign of crawling back out of bed. It irritated him. Worried him.

When he entered the suite now, after cutting away the frustration of a fruitless conversation with her children, he expected her to be in her usual position: lying down in bed, tossing around occasionally, drifting in and out of sleep. But she was awake, sitting up, and visibly shaken.

"You see, Miss?" The nurse, seated on the other side of the bed, gently chided her. "I told you he was right outside―"

Lusamine spoke right over her. "You were gone," she said, trembling like a leaf.

"Yeah, for just a few minutes," Guzma replied.

"I woke up," she continued, reduced to a whisper, "and you weren't here."

Guzma stopped and stared from just inside the enclosed doorway. At the distance where he stood, he could see her green eyes, flickering and full of pain, and the tightness of her skin over her face. She still wore her silken, kimono-style robe over a delicate nightgown, covering her modestly, with its sleeves fanning out like fairy wings as her hands fidgeted on her lap. Guzma frowned. "I'm here now."

All she moved were her quaking china hands, groping them at the end of the bed facing him. Her voice rose to a pitch of pitiful urgency. "Sit… Sit with me…"

And as he had for the last few days, without fail, he gave in, knowing full well what a web she spun, what a game she played. He placed his hands in his pockets and approached the queen size bed, watched her persist in pulling on the comforter draped over her lower body, and then sat down on the edge of the mattress. Lusamine leaned over, snagging his shirt sleeve with her fingers.

He looked down at where she grabbed him but didn't respond to it with any emotion, beyond vague resignation.

The nurse, reading the tension in the room, stood to her feet and cleared her throat, addressing Guzma. "Now that you're here, I can check on dinner service. Do you need anything before I go?"

"Uh…" Guzma lifted his eyes, meeting Lusamine's face. Though they didn't speak any words to each other, something clear was communicated between them. "Nah, I think we're good."

Lusamine's hand hadn't left his arm even after the nurse disappeared out the door, but he still didn't address it, even as he knew what it meant. The room dimmed. By now, though, he had memorized the placement of objects and furniture about the suite, so that he could trace the faint shadows and know what they represented―chairs, tables, shelves, ornaments.

Her hand tugged more insistently than before. "Guzma." The words shrank in her throat, until he could hardly hear them. "Sit with me."

"I _am_ sitting with you."

Vexed, she adjusted her body on the bed, pushing herself to the far side, and reeled him in.

"All right, all right―" Apparently, being alone had made her suddenly more bold. He thought briefly about removing his shoes, but in the end he didn't bother; he clumsily made his way onto the bed, eventually sitting at the right proximity next to her, with his back against the headboard. Instead of letting him go, she wilted, enclosing him with her arms about his torso. Upon receiving no resistance, she rested her head upon his rising chest.

...And then they fell silent again.

They remained like that for some time. Guzma nearly thought Lusamine had drifted off, but the final blast of the ship's horn made her suck in a breath and lift her head in alarm.

"The ship's going," he told her.

The sudden tightness in her muscles relaxed. "...So… At last…" Without the strength to keep her head up, she settled in again with a sweet exhale. "Going…"

Although Guzma could not clearly see the shoreline from where he sat, out of the bottom edge of the far window, the tops of trees, in the form of black smudges in the dark, drifted. He expected to feel the movement as the ship propelled itself forward, and for a second he thought he did―but the sensation was so subtle, that he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.

"Going…"

(Why the preoccupation with that word?) Nervously, he fixed his hand to her back, smoothing his fingers against the silk fabric. The touch seemed to quell whatever thought had lodged itself in her. She went quiet, aside from the steady pace of her breathing.

* * *

Guzma, in the last few days, had plenty of time to both observe her and make determinations. In particular, he learned what it meant to be around her. Before, all interactions between them were brief, rehearsed, scheduled, under controlled conditions. But now, in her languishing, she came across as strangely real and intimate, as if she really had a body after all, and maybe a soul, too. She craved his company fervently, so that he could hardly separate himself from her; she wanted to be held by him, she wanted to be near him, she wanted to breathe his air and hear his voice. The attention dizzied him. Receiving affection had always been a weakness of his, but this fawning proved too unsettling. He indulged her―a little. Just enough to relieve her excitement. Through it all, though, his lizard-brain sense of self-preservation kept him wary. She gushed, while he tried to stay mostly aloof.

Yet...

Despite what he knew, it was easy, falling back into old and broken fantasies.

Especially when he watched her sleep.

Somehow, her veneer of perfection not only survived, but flourished best in her sleep; whether on her back, like an honored and holy saint, or curled up like a newborn, she embodied all qualities that she professed: gentleness, sanctity, peacefulness, fragility. It was as if her deception ran so deeply, that it preserved itself in her absence.

And then she would wake up, and recount her dreams in a trembling voice: she dreamed she was lost on a mountaintop; she dreamed of an empty house that howled, a barren valley, a burning room slowly suffocating her, shadows chasing her, hallways without doors, darkness, darkness, darkness. (Was that the darkness crawling up out of her, fighting to escape? Or was it just more words? More tricks?)

Guzma dealt poorly with the whiplash of dealing in cynicism and foolhardy hope. He could look into her eyes, see every shade of amber green glistening with remorse and promise, and forgive her of everything. Then, just as quickly, he would remind himself of one important thing:

Lusamine had not apologized.

The neglect went even further than that: she utterly refused to talk about it. In fact, as far he could tell, she convincingly pretended nothing had happened, even acting like she didn't know why he left in the first place. A few times in the last week, he had timidly attempted to bring the matter up―only to have her change the subject, act confused, or outright deny knowing anything. He couldn't decide the cause of this. He didn't think she'd forgotten―that seemed unlikely. If he pressed, really pressed, she would squirm and bluster, lashing out with revealing hostility… That read as avoidance, not ignorance. So was it shame? Was it guilt? If it wasn't, she had learned to mimic those emotions with frightening accuracy.

He wanted to hate her for it. For pretending, and even moreso, pretending that not talking about it negated its power. But the strategy was familiar to him. He of all people knew that if you push something far enough down, stomp it with enough force, you can trick your brain into disbelieving it, or mistaking it for a nightmare you had once, or a stray thought you wrongly allowed to become a memory.

* * *

The headboard started to cut sharply against his back; he shifted his weight.

The movement roused Lusamine from her state of peace. She unwound her arms from his torso, throat quickening with small, alarmed swallows, and she lifted herself enough to gaze pitiably into his face.

"You aren't… Leaving again…?"

He frowned and lashed out irritably. "Will you chill? Seriously. Every time I sneeze don't mean the wedding's off―"

Lusamine, who evidently did not appreciate being addressed in such a manner, threw back her sheets and comforter, grabbed his shoulders to balance herself, straightened her hips, and swung her leg across the width of his thighs, with the end result being that she straddled his lap. He sputtered, but before he could properly object, she escalated. She pulled herself up onto her knees, wrapped her hands firmly at the base of his throat, and enwrapped him in a kiss.

The kiss lasted a few moments―warm, tinged with cloying need, a yearning. He pushed his hands up against her the flesh of her arms, beneath the robe's sleeves―she released her lips and shivered…

Then, abruptly, Guzma yanked her down, sitting her flatly on his lap. "Okay," he said, "I gotta get up."

"Oh, what's the matter?"

At first he didn't respond, only trying to roll her off; she wrapped her arms around his neck and fought fiercely to stay in place, so he momentarily gave up and glared her. "I'm going to my suite. It's next door; no big deal."

Lusamine became frantic. "Did I do something wrong?" She tried to read his expression―failed to understand its apathy―and curled her warm body close to his chest. "Why don't you stay?" she whined, drenching her voice in sickly-sweet sensuality.

But he was too distracted―too exhausted―too frustrated to even start falling for this. He roughly pushed her back. "'Cause at some point, I gotta get some sleep."

Undeterred, she leaned into his face again, hovering her lips over his. "You can do that here. Can't you?"

"Miss L…" He frowned, drumming up an appropriate excuse. "I don't think we're supposed to spend the night _before_ the wedding, huh?"

"Oh," she sighed, "don't be so moralistic… It doesn't suit you at all..."

Guzma dwelled on her disappointment. Though she probably deserved the occasional rejection, the thought of depriving her of anything still weighed on him, so he slipped his hands about her lower back, thought about it, and mumbled with an ounce of consolation, "Tomorrow night. Tomorrow, I can stay long as you want."

"Yes… You're right… Tomorrow night… And the next…" Lusamine snorted a breathy laugh, and repeated, "And the next… And the next..."

He tried to disguise the spike of discomfort fixed against his throat. "...Yeah."

"My… acolyte…" She hummed and dipped her face into the crook of his neck, and he could feel her lips stretch into a smile against the sensitive skin of his throat. "Still… defending my virtue…"

Guzma rolled his eyes…

And the door opened.

In the dim light, the nurse must have not seen them right away, and upon seeing them, not understood it: however, after a few seconds, she recoiled and sharply gasped.

"Oh _no_ ," Lusamine cried, though clearly amused by their embarrassment. She sank back into Guzma's arms. "We've been _caught_ , darling."

"I'm―!" The nurse covered her eyes and started for the door. "I'm so sorry, I should have knocked…!"

Taking advantage of Lusamine's relaxed demeanor, Guzma swiftly caught her and tossed her onto the bed. He ignored her yelp of surprise and threw his legs over the side of the bed, leaving him seated and facing the servant. "Nah, it's all right―I'm leaving."

"Leaving? They're bringing dinner service," the nurse said.

"They can send mine to my room."

"Honestly," Lusamine complained, pawing at his back, "I thought you'd at least stay until after dinner…"

Guzma bristled. "No! I _told_ you!" He realized he had raised his voice more than he intended when both women stared at him; he hoisted himself to his feet and rubbed his hair in a fit of agitation. "Look…" He tempered his tone after stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'll stop by later."

"To tuck me in?"

He groaned and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes again. "Whatever you say, Miss L."

When the trolleys rolled in through the door and the servants exchanged words, he gave his last word by pointing to the nurse.

"When I get back, I'm gonna ask her if you ate anything, and if she says no, I'm gonna be pissed."

"Oh?" Lusamine tilted her head to the side, lazily putting a finger to her lips. She countered his strictness with a teasing, "Will I be in very much trouble?"

But her kittenish attempt at bringing levity out of him failed. He eyed her sternly. " _I'm serious_."

"Hmm. Very well." She heaved a sigh and landed her hands on her lap with a thump. "I'll be good."

Guzma stared at her. Before he left, he chewed and thought, added the gathered information to his previous notions… Tried, in his sluggish brain, to pick apart her freshly adopted behaviors. He didn't know where this all fit in. It _had_ to fit in. She was too calculating and keen to put on mannerisms without some intention behind them.

But as he had for other issues, he dismissed it as too late to worry about now. Whatever her plan… It would become apparent tomorrow.

* * *

Over the bobbing waters, behind where the waves were cleft between the hull's steel sides, an attentive crew member could, if they tried, spot the winding patterns of light continuing to connect the ship to Akala Island's shore. The city's landscape cast an exterior ring of shadow about the sand and rock, with sunken imitations of towers, shops, bridges―windows and lamps illuminating the ever-distant surface of the waters. A sharp line of disturbance cut through these reflections, demonstrating where the ship had already successfully trudged, and the line wavered, its milky white foam hastily melting back into the blue pitch.

But unbeknownst to anyone, much less the crew, another line had been drawn.

It was thin and as transparent as glass. Barely noticeable against the bright lights of the horizon and the black nothingness of the sea. But if one knew what to look for―and mind you, no one on the ship did―one could squint and see it. A silent ripple in the reflections. A small blip of life. And then, as Akala's lights fell away, so did It, this phantom of the surface that no one would notice.

The dinner service continued unabated.

* * *

Nanu's cunning detective instincts were telling him that he was not _nearly_ drunk enough.

Plumeria had run off―being hormonal or something, not that he asked―leaving him alone at a table with some couple he'd rather not pay attention to. He'd grabbed another drink (harder stuff this time) and finished it off in time for food, which actually turned out to be a delightful arrangement, some of the best fish he'd ever had, certainly a better meal than the cup ramen he subsisted on most of the time…

Anyway, two additional drinks later, he started to feel a comfortable buzz and identified Gladion and Lillie sitting at the long head table. Normally, this would be seen as a daring move on their part, but with their mother not in attendance, this seating arrangement made the most sense. The directors interrogated them a second time―to little impact, as far as Nanu could tell―then left them to be casually approached and greeted by various others guests who recognized them for who they were. And while he wasn't normally one to initiate social contact, they looked sufficiently miserable, and he felt sufficiently bored.

So Nanu moved himself and his refreshed drink over to their table, watching as another guest ended a conversation with the children. He at first stood beside them and waited to be greeted, but the two were so distracted that they didn't notice him. They hadn't touched their food. Lillie had a glass of water in her hand, which she sipped at gingerly. Judging by the surrounding circumstances and where he knew they had been, he could figure the cause of their vacant, deer-in-headlines expressions.

Nanu cleared his throat. "Hey, kids."

They jerked from surprise and looked up at him, but neither of them greeted him in return―not even Lillie, who normally buzzed with social energy.

"Changed your mind and came after all, huh?" Nanu mused in Gladion's direction. "Should I take it personally?"

Neither of them spoke.

"Shoot," he said, pulling out a chair and slumping into its seat. He kicked back as he glanced them over. "You look like you're at a funeral."

A stupid comment. He could blame the drinking for that. At least they didn't take offense. Gladion shook his head and pushed his dinner plate aside to make room for his elbows, propping them rudely atop the table. "Matters have gotten complicated."

"...Hmm."

Gladion frowned and glanced past Nanu's shoulder. "Where's Plumeria?"

"Heck if I know."

"We should reconvene with her."

Nanu cocked an eyebrow. "You have some kinda plan you're itching to share?"

Gladion nearly answered in earnest, but he thought on something and started tapping a finger on the table. He grit his teeth as he muttered bitterly, "Besides stewing in our own juices…?"

A small smirk tugged at the end of Nanu's mouth. "I wouldn't call a pity party a 'plan'..." After making that snipe, Nanu turned to Lillie, who remained quiet and sullen. He cocked an eyebrow. In his experience, the girl didn't restrain herself from rattling on nervously. "Hey, princess."

She lifted her eyes from her drinking glass, brow stitched together.

"You should eat something. The food's not bad."

Encouraged by his rare display of care, she smiled primly. "Thank you, but… I'm not very hungry."

At this point, Kahuna Nanu sensed both their unwillingness to engage with him, and through the fog of his drinking, something… else. At first he attributed the sensation to their evasive behavior, but he planted a hand on his knee, slumped over, took another drink, and realized that the tingling at the back of his brain was not due to the children at all. He blinked. The dining hall had a warm, comfortable glow-nothing amiss. The sounds of clicking china and glass accompanied the vibrant bursts of laughter and conversation. He leafed his fingers through his thin, flaky head of hair, blinked back the cobwebs, and just when he thought to dismiss his feelings as drunken paranoia, the idea resurged with more intensity.

The wait staff had disappeared.

Had no one noticed…?

"Um…" Lillie noticed his change in posture. "Mr. Nanu?"

He grunted and looked out over the crowd. He saw an older woman pawing her empty glass, looking impatient―she hadn't received attention for at least a few minutes. Outside, on the other side of the glass door, a nervous crew worker paced the deck.

"Are you okay?"

After a moment of continuing to ignore her, Nanu suddenly stood up and dusted himself off. He teetered some, then, seeing their gaping, waved his dismissal. "Eh, look… Sorry to bother you… I'll leave you to it…"

As he went, the two children exchanged puzzled looks.

 _Great. More nonsense_. At least it couldn't be any more surprise guests, now that the ship was out on open water. Had to be something interesting. Plumeria hadn't returned yet; if he was going to go snooping again, he'd have to go it alone.

Before he sidled his way out to the deck, he studied the other guests. No one appeared perturbed or worried. Notably, even the Board of Directors still sat at their table, apparently blissfully unaware of _this_ particular drama.

"Well," he murmured to himself, replacing his glass at his table, "here goes nothing."

Upon opening the glass-panel door out to the deck, Nanu caught sight of the crew worker. The stout, flummoxed man hurried over to him, appearing consumed with panic; that the crewman was overweight, older, and hadn't managed to button up his uniform properly added to the sense of overwhelm. In the faint outdoor lighting, lines of sweat could be seen streaking his brow and cheeks. "Sir," the man said, trying to grab the handle to the door to block Nanu's exit, "I, I'm going to need you to go back inside―"

"Huh?" Nanu feigned ignorance, and rather than force his way through, he drew out a cigarette from his pocket. "Something up?"

"No."

(The answer came too quickly. Like the question was expected, and the man had rehearsed his response).

"No," the man repeated―he must have realized how transparent of a lie it must be― "it is nothing serious… But please… For the safety of everyone on board, we're requesting everyone stay where they are until…"

"What, are we sinking or something?"

The worker started hyperventilating and flapping his arms. The louder he cried, the more obvious his lilting, Kalosian accent go to be. "No! _Non_ , sir, please don't say that sort of thing around the other guests―"

"Relax; I'm not looking to start a riot." Nanu waved his cigarette. "Just on a smoke break."

The crew member looked at him, a little dumbfounded at the excuse, and couldn't think of a way to rebuff him. His eyes tellingly swivelled, especially toward the back of the boat, but the longer he saw that Nanu was serious, the more his grip weakened on the door. At last, he relented and stepped back, giving the kahuna space to step out onto the deck. "Yes… I see… Just as long… As you don't wander, yes?"

"Sure."

In any easy motion, Nanu slid out and propped himself against the railing, overlooking the expanding sea. More distance grew between the boat and Akala, but the island had not disappeared yet, remaining black and blinking on the horizon behind them. While Nanu put his cigarette to his lips and searched for his lighter, he could hear the crewman's agonized breathing and pacing behind him. He tried to tune out the noise, cupping his hand against the warm breeze to produce his flame, and then, in his first bit of observation, he spotted something out on the water. The object drifted in the opposite direction on a long, parabolic slope of disturbed water, far from them; a quick mental calculation of its current trajectory determined that the object must have narrowly missed them. Was that it? A near collision?

The night sky started to blur in his vision. His thinking muddled. It was a boat, he thought, or something like it… The cigarette puffed a trail of smoke, which drew a silky white line in the air before him…

Trickling out of the wind, a sound emerged. He thought it was coming from out on the water, but no, he turned his head toward the back of the ship. The poorly-lit, obscured side deck prevented him from seeing the source of the noise, but that, combined with the crewman's attention to that side of the ship, he could only conclude that the trouble started there.

He narrowed his eyes.

"...The devil is…?"

And though it was far away, as he cocked his head to the side to listen, he could swear it sounded… Familiar. _Irritating_.

* * *

Up in the residential suites, Guzma, having finished his dinner, had to make one more decision for the night. He could not hear the commotion outside, and no attendants had come to inform him, so he felt no urgency when he exited his suite. He replaced his suit jacket over his shoulders, as he hadn't decided whether to go downstairs later―it wasn't that he desired company, as much as he felt he'd go crazy, remaining stuck alone in his room any longer.

Not paying close attention to his surroundings, he shut the door to his suite. In his mind, he started to practice his final conversation with Lusamine―perhaps his final conversation with her as his fiancee. He turned. He nearly missed it, as he was so stuck in his thoughts, but after taking a single step toward Lusamine's room, he spotted a visitor standing across from him, leaning against the wall and eyeing him.

The name launched into his throat, choking him on it. "Plume."

While he expressed a mix of horror, regret, and surprise, Plumeria showed a more straightforward emotion. Her eyebrows lay low, settled against her steely, pin-point eyes; she had her arms folded and braced against her body with hostile tightness. She didn't answer his clumsy greeting, so he tried again.

"...You come with Nanu?" He waited a second, then shook his head. "...I didn't… really expect you to show..." He awkwardly noted her red dress. "You, uh, look nice."

Plumeria was not impressed. She put her hands on her hips. " _Seriously_? 'You look nice'?"

Okay… Admittedly, not his smoothest attempt at easing tension. He grimaced and diverted his eyes. "What do you _want_ me to say?"

"How about, 'I'm sorry, Plumeria'? 'I was a jerk,' 'you were right about everything'-"

To her surprise, he snapped angrily, interrupting. "You're outta your mind."

"Who, _me_?!" Plumeria no longer kept her voice at a middling, restrained volume; she didn't care who heard anymore. "Me, and not _you_ , the guy who's selling his soul?"

As she grew louder, he became more antsy; he looked about for escape routes, and tried to step toward Lusamine's suite to end the conversation.

But Plumeria lunged, placing herself in the middle of the hallway. When he irritably tried to side-step her and was thwarted by her swaying. She said sarcastically, "Sorry, am I _in your way_?"

Guzma nearly replied―then the words bounced around in his head, striking him as familiar and… Of course. ' _You're in my way, Plume_. _You've always been in my…_ ' Outwardly, he remained stoic. "Plume…"

"'Plume', what?"

"You don't know anything, all right? You don't know what I'm doing… You definitely don't know _why_ I'm doing it. So I don't wanna hear it, okay? I don't wanna hear your take on things―"

"You really are," she said, agonizing in being unable to keep her words from shaking, "the dumbest idiot on the planet."

Guzma leaned in. He thought, for a time, of things he could say to mend, or agree, or pacify, or recant… And then, towering over her, he let his frustration out in the form of a deep, harsh growl: " _Grow up_."

Because she wasn't expecting it, the sweep of his hand that came directly afterward successfully knocked her aside; she fumbled in her heels and ended up balancing herself on the opposite wall. She watched him as he turned his back to her and approached the door, and as anger at his dismissal bubbled up inside her, she began to rant furiously. "You've got me messed up, if you think I came here just to beg. 'Cause I'm _over it_ , Guzma. Whatever stupid decision you wanna make―that's on you!"

He ignored her and reached for the door handle.

"So don't think I did it for you."

...He stopped.

Amused, she thought aloud: "You know, of all the people at this bash… I didn't see _any_ friends of yours. Like, I think Nanu and me are the _only people_ who know you at all. Kinda sad, if you think about it."

Guzma lifted his hand from the door handle and looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "What are you talking about? What you 'did'-?"

Plumeria didn't get a chance to allude to an explanation; just before Guzma could question her any further, an attendant burst through the door at the end of the hall, entering from outside. The young man looked pale and out of breath, and after a few seconds of puffing and wheezing, he exclaimed upon seeing them. "Sir! Madam!"

At that moment, Guzma felt his stomach plummet and head spin.

"Please, for your own safety, we're asking that everyone remain inside… If you could both go back into your rooms, that would be…"

Guzma ran, shoving the attendant aside on his way out. He reached the railing overlooking the back of the ship and gazed down at the lower deck just in time to watch the blockade break.

* * *

To understand precisely the catastrophe that befell the wedding ship that evening, one would have to pull back―to see the wider view of things, and to see into the last few minutes, in which the disaster came to a head.

It started around fifteen minutes prior, when the Team Skull speedboat, a remnant of the days in which the team had money to waste on luxuries, took aim for the cruise liner some dozens of sizes larger than itself. Upon nestling itself against the churning sides of the white ship, plugging along as fast as it could, bodies emerged, and within minutes, a rope ladder had been secured to the side, and about two dozen (or so) wedding crashers helped themselves and each other up onto the deck. They were so practiced in the art of climbing into places where they didn't belong, that the whole group of thugs had already gotten comfortable when crew members discovered them.

The speedboat absconded―leaving the body of grunts between the sea and a frightened boat crew.

At first, this scenario moved rather sluggishly. No one made sudden movements; the crew sent out alerts to all workers on board, warning them to retreat inside and keep guests where they were. Within seconds, the police were called, and the quartermaster made sure the teenagers knew it. _Everyone stay where you are, the police are on their way…_

In the midst of all this, the grunts showed themselves to be surprisingly calm. They actually sat or lounged on the deck, eyeballing the crew members who had cornered them, occasionally whistling or calling out a threat. Silence simmered with grumbling and jeers.

But as Guzma arrived at the overlook, seeing the standoff beneath the glow of floodlights, an unseen signal must have been communicated, because at that moment, all the grunts acted at once. An explosion broke out: pokemon partners were released, allowing dozens of the creatures to tear across the deck; the hissing snap of firecrackers and smoke bombs burned the air; an unbridled, collective scream of joy preceded a storming forward, breezily breaking through the defensive wall of crew workers.

From where Guzma stood, all he could see was the swarm of bodies and flapping wings and haunches and scarves on heads, paint, smoke, and banners with skulls waving in the air, with all the grandeur and intent of a pirate's skull-and-crossbones. To pick out individuals among the black caps proved impossible, especially as the group clustered and funnelled violently down narrow pathways along the deck, toppling any resistance standing in their way.

For a few minutes, Guzma couldn't even find it in himself to move. He just stood there, gripping the railing, watching the chaos unfurl and listening to the ear-splitting cacophony of screaming, laughter, footfalls, crashing, firecrackers, and pokemon cries. As the crowd of adolescents vanished down the other end of the ship, a group of fumbling crew workers picked themselves up and started to follow, calling to each other as they did.

...Guzma could turn around. He could head back inside, curse Plumeria royally out, and lock himself in his suite until the whole thing blew over―which, inevitably, it would, as the invasion clearly hadn't been planned with an exit strategy. He could even retreat to Lusamine's suite, to bar the door, keep her calm, and hold out hope that the ensuing damage would resolve itself overnight.

White-hot anger, however, motivated a different impulse altogether. All the agony and strain he had put into this―and they spat and rolled around in it, like it was a toy to play with, like nothing meant anything. He didn't try to suppress the feeling; he flew toward the stairwell, fully intent on bashing every head he could connect his hands to.

* * *

Downstairs, Nanu had the distinct honor of facing the group of grunts barrelling toward him with all the grace and finesse of a Tauros stampede.

While the crew worker behind him squealed and ran, he planted himself lethargically against the railing, huffed his cigarette, and cursed under his breath. "...Oh, god. Kill me now."

As the thundering grew closer, he still didn't budge, though he eventually pressed a hand to his ear to temper the screaming being launched in his direction; of course, he was recognized quickly by the mob and had to endure their excitable braying.

"Uncle!"

"Nanu!"

"Gramps!"

They didn't aim to crush him, but by the very nature of their clustering, the rushing crowd of shrieking, popping, bashing children, with pokemon spilling from under their feet and fluttering above their heads, almost entirely absorbed him as they flowed toward the dining hall entrance. Jolted and momentarily off his feet, he struggled, knocked a few heads with his elbows, and staggered back onto the ground before being pinned back against the wall. Before he could even get a word out beyond additional cussing, the swarm managed to press open the door and stream inside, to the startled cries of the men and women currently finishing dinner.

Nanu, discombobulated, surprised himself by feeling a bit shaken up―he had been caught in mobs before, and there was no feeling quite as powerless as being surrounded by twenty to thirty reckless bodies, pressing and grabbing and clobbering and tackling, all threatening to send you to the ground, at which point being trampled to death was not an impossibility. For a brief few seconds, the breath got knocked out of him, and he had to come to terms with the miserable reality that he was not as young and fit as he used to be.

However, just as quickly, the bulk of the group had disappeared into the dining hall, leaving only a few grunts outside to pester him. Two girls, seeing his unsteadiness, flanked him and actually took hold of his arms.

A boy he recognized as Nene gestured his arms wildly, speaking cheerfully. "Dang, Mr. Nanu, you got messed up, huh?"

Nanu tried to brush it off and coughed wheezily. He swallowed his humiliation enough to croak, "My cigarette."

"What's that?"

Nanu started searching the ground. "Where's my cigarette?"

"Yo, it's dead. Forget it."

He sighed. "...Great."

The girl at his left arm pulled and squealed. "Uncle! You glad to see us? You miss us!?"

"Ow―no." Nanu pulled his arm free of her-or at least tried. "What in blazes are you doing here? Decided you'd rather rob rich folk?"

"We ain't here to rob nobody, yo!" Nene puffed self-righteously. "We here to party!"

While Nene talked, Nanu glanced past him and through the glass-panelled walls. He could see at least one grunt yanking a purse out of a woman's arms. At the table next to them, a plump Raticate leaped up onto the tabletop to stuff leftovers into its cheeks. "Well, you idiots picked the wrong venue. Cops jump real quick for rich folk."

"Who cares! Like we're afraid o' cops."

Nanu turned his head to look down the deck. "...Hmm. Maybe not. But you might want to watch out for that guy."

The grunts followed his eyes and saw what he saw: Guzma making a run for them.

Without another word, they scrambled and split up, yelping with excitement, dodging into the shadows further down and ducking inside the dining hall. The warning gave them just barely enough time to disappear before Guzma, puffing and red-faced, slowed to a stop where Nanu stood.

The groom-to-be panted, glared, and dramatically flung himself in Nanu's direction. "You!"

Nanu arched an eyebrow and pointed to himself. "...Me?"

"You brought Plumeria!"

"...Yeah? I don't know where she is."

Suddenly, Guzma towered over him in an ineffectual attempt at intimidation. "Did you _know_ she was gonna do this?"

"Do what?" The sound of distant smashed plates reminded him. "Oh, that. Yeah, in retrospect, that makes sense, don't it…"

Guzma steamed wordlessly, and Nanu appeased him with hands raised in mock-surrender.

"Woah, hey. Before you throw grandpa under the bus, here―no, I didn't know anything about this." Nanu paused to think a moment. "...Technically."

Guzma groaned, stared at the chaos gripping the well-lit dining hall, and pressed his hands to his forehead. "I'm going to kill her."

"Kid…"

"I'm _actually_ going to kill her."

"...As a police officer, I have to advise against that."

Guzma sucked in some air, as if preparing a ranting screed, then seemingly gave up on it, releasing it in a dry, tired sigh. He pushed his hands into his pockets, and Nanu looked up at him in the sharp contrast of light and dark, seeing a deep, crippling exhaustion that shouldn't be in any face at his age. Nanu could understand Plumeria's indignation, and maybe even sympathize with her desire to stir up trouble, but after seeing that, he thought sourly, _way to kick the kid while he's down_.

"Look… Kid…"

Guzma shifted his feet. He watched the grunts through the glass, and the more he saw, the more agitated he became. Some grunts even spotted him in the nighttime lighting and gestured at him, further incensing him.

"There's no point in fighting it," Nanu droned, waving lazily side-to-side with his hand. "Just relax, go upstairs, get a drink, watch some TV; the whole thing'll be over before―"

Guzma snorted and stormed over to the door to the dining hall, pulled it open, and entered.

"―A-and I'm just talking to myself, aren't I." Nanu dug another cigarette out of his front pocket. "...Well, I tried."

While he leaned back against the railing to recover his senses, bracing against the cooling air of the deepening night, he filtered out the noise the best he could. For a moment, he even enjoyed himself―breathing fresh air, hearing the black waves slap against the ship.

Of course, it didn't last long. The wedding guests decided they didn't want to cower and take any more abuse, so in different directions, they began to filter their way out of the dining hall, either by stairs, back entrances, or even cutting through the kitchen. Several couples raced to the door where Nanu lounged, and as they spoke in high-pitched, offended voices, they brushed off food, groped where items had been snatched from them, and lamented the paint that ruined their fine clothes.

One young woman who looked particularly terrified saw Nanu and wept at him. "What are you doing, standing there?! You're an officer of the law! Do something!"

"I'm retired, lady," he retorted, teetering and slurring. He breathed in his fresh cigarette. "I'm also drunk―but mostly retired."

* * *

Lillie and Gladion were as surprised as anyone by the sudden appearance of Team Skull in the middle of dinner. But while the other guests cried out in sheer terror at the sight of this army of juvenile delinquents, the two stayed seated, choosing to express their shock by watching the spectacle in amazement.

Lillie murmured a rather understated, "Oh, dear."

For whatever reason, the grunts focused their romping on the round tables of the center floor, and momentarily neglected the table where they sat at the very front. One grunt carried in a boombox, which flipped on to blast muffled music; another several ran around the rotunda, shaking and aiming spraycan paint at guests, using their clothes as canvas; at least one table was kicked clear to make space for a grunt attempting to breakdance. The rest were satisfied to demolish whatever they came across without prejudice, to make as much noise as they could.

Their pokemon enjoyed the pillaging as much as they did. Golbats and Crobats circled the air, Rattatas and Raticates scooted beneath tables and skirts to scoop up morsels of food or glistening, unguarded items. Some wedding guests brought out their own partners to try and beat back the mob, but none of the grunts had interest in challenging them to a battle, so this strategy accomplished little, aside from driving them to other tables. Docteur Morel of the directors looked especially peeved, allowing her Pyroar to blast spurts of fire at any child who dared hassle her.

A large, plump Gengar finally waddled unattended to Lillie and Gladion's table. Rather than attack, it stood across from them and pawed the surface of the table, chittering and reaching for Lillie's untouched plate of food.

"Oh…? Sure, you can have it. I wasn't eating it, anyway."

She pushed the plate across, and the Gengar blinked at her gratefully before it shoved the meal-plate and all-into its wide, cheshire mouth. The ensuing chewing noise was horrible, but Lillie actually managed to laugh.

"Yo! Gengar!"

Chops, bandana down around his neck, jumped down from a table toward the other end of the hall and rushed over. The pokemon was evidently his; he rubbed its head and pushed it aside to see them. His face brightened when he recognized them. Chops, of the older boys in Team Skull, had warmed up to Gladion the most in those months, though Gladion suspected ulterior motives―Chops' attention only seemed to spike when Lillie was nearby.

"Aw, hey, Li'l G! Whassgood?" Chops leaned his elbow atop the Gengar's head. "Didn't know you'd be here!"

Gladion tried not to look absolutely aghast; he trailed his eyes across the room, as plates were smashed, guests harassed, food dismantled, and pokemon let loose over tabletops. The noise in the room was so incredible that he had to holler his response. " _Likewise_."

Chops stared at Lillie until she awkwardly greeted, "Um… Hello…"

Chops wagged his head, looking over her and clucking, "Mmm, yeah, hey, babygirl, what's the word?!"

Not appreciating Chops' tone or eye-scrolling, Gladion stepped between them and glared daggers at the boy.

"Tch, c'mon, G! She said 'hi' to me first! What am I gonna do, huh? I ain't tryin' to be rude!" Chops shook his head vigorously. "How you here so fast, anyway? Big Sis sneak you in early?"

 _Plumeria?_ Gladion seethed quietly; of course she would pull something like this. "No sneaking was necessary. We were invited."

"Invited?"

"Due to our family connection."

Chops glanced at the two of them. "Family- _who_?"

Gladion put his hands on his hips, marvelling at his ignorance. "Have you really not pieced it together? The president's our mother."

Chops' eyes widened. "Wait, _what_? Yo, hold up, so that means―" Looking eminently concerned, Chops leaned in close to say into his ear, "Big G's gettin' it on with your mom?" He didn't wait for Gladion respond, which was a mercy, because Gladion had nothing kind to say to that. Chops crowed aloud, looking offended on his behalf, "That's screwed up! You're gonna fight him, right?! That's why you're here?"

Gritting his teeth, Gladion prepared to say something nasty…

But Guzma entered, throwing the whole room into a tizzy. The young man didn't take much time assessing the situation, but sulkily passed the grunts who hopped up on chairs and hollered after him, reaching instead the table of directors. He spoke with Morel, apparently convincing her to withdraw her Pyroar and attend the rest of the guests out. He then turned for the front, spotted Gladion and Lillie, and shook his head at them. He approached and pointed for the door, where the guests had started to rush out. "Y'all should go with 'em," he said.

"We'll be all right," Lillie answered.

Guzma gaped at her, puzzled by her refusal, but didn't look to have the will to fight it.

"What are you going to do?"

He shrugged. He didn't look very sure of himself. "Gotta try _something_."

 _Inspiring last words,_ Gladion thought.

* * *

Guzma worried that the grunts would take the guests' escape as a clue to flee as well, perhaps even chase the people around the boat in an endless cycle of harassment, but Team Skull had decided the dining hall served well as a gathering place. It had seating, surfaces to decorate, food, drink, and a nice view. So the gang collected among the tables, some seated, some standing, some still wandering about. They laughed and prattled freely, with the occasional foreign object flying through the air, not always aimed at someone in particular.

At the center of the front table, Guzma stood. He negotiated his pose, weighing between adult authorianism and youthful detachment, and ultimately decided to stand mostly straight, but leaning back a little, resting lightly against the edge of the table while he looked out over the group. The room was filled with the incongruous images of chandeliers with sneakers, fine linens with stained bandanas, and sparkling crystal glasses with dyed hair. Team Skull looked laughably out of place, and they seemed to know it, too, which drove their desire to smash their surroundings, forcing it to fit in their aesthetic. They did not move with unity, but broke off into factions of diverse activity and attitudes, boys and girls, couples and trios and packs. Guzma didn't remember them acting so disjointed before. Sure, they were never synchronized or anything, but they used to react to signals, or share some semblance of a goal.

He crossed his arms and waited. As he remembered it, that was all that was needed to gradually work them into attention: a good stare.

But they continued to chatter and move randomly.

Guzma made his first verbal order. "Hey, listen up!"

 _Still_ , no change in their demeanor.

He put his hands in his pants pockets, scoffing. "Y'all―I got somethin' to say!"

An impatient, snotty voice retorted from somewhere in the crowd, "Then _say_ it!"  
A wave of laughter rolled over them.

"You stupid? You ain't listening! How'm I supposed to―"

His voice was drowned out again. Some unhappy grumbling started up in the front row, and only some of their eyes had wandered in his direction at all.

Guzma lit up in a snit, lifting himself from against the table, and this time, really shouting. "Hey! I said _shut up_!"

For a brief second, silence swept the room as the grunts gawked at him and each other―and then immediately, the quiet crumbled into unruly, uproarious laughter. Kids fell out of chairs. Hit each other. Screeched, hooted, brayed, crumpled napkins and balls and chucked them up toward him until they collected at his feet. In the midst of the shrieks and giggles, he could hear some of them echoing his plea in effeminate, squeaky voices of mockery: _ooh, I said shut up! I said shut up!_

Guzma felt anger and humiliation inflame his face and punch into his gut; this group used to be _his_ , used to cower and scurry at his every demand, but now, as he looked out at the sea of faces, he realized he had no power over them. Of those he knew, they eyed him like a friend forgotten, a sellout; of the others, he saw new recruits who had never met him before, and thus saw him as another, nameless adult trying to wrangle them into control.

He made several more attempts at speaking over them, including threats and admonishments, to no avail.

"Mr. Guzma."

Guzma turned to find Gladion beside him, addressing him quietly.

"...I don't think this is working."

"Yeah?!" Guzma lashed out at him. "Geez, how'd you figure that out?"

The younger boy grimaced but continued, "By now, the crew will have already contacted law enforcement. The ship isn't far from the islands, so the police will be arriving any minute."

"So, what?!"

"You should let the police handle this." Gladion sidled in closer, hissing at him impatiently. "You're giving them the reaction they want."

"Kid!" Guzma fumed, almost ready to pull parental authority on him. "Go siddown and shut it!"

As they squabbled, they unintentionally found a solution to the team's lack of attention; all the grunts had quieted to try and listen in on their argument. The two were so caught up in their disagreement, that they didn't realize this until a voice broke out of the largely-silent crowd: _Ayyyye,_ it cried, _Don't let him diss you like that, Li'l G!_

 _Kick his_ ** _butt_** _, Li'l G!_

Guzma briefly puzzled over who "Li'l G" was―and Gladion scowled, turning away. The grunts groaned in disappointment. In all likelihood, Guzma could have taken advantage of the grunts' momentary focus, if he had immediately addressed them. But the fact was, Guzma hesitated long enough to yield his platform to the next loud and forceful personality in the room.

* * *

Bully hopped up onto a table in one smooth leap, landing on the toes of his white sneakers. He straightened himself first, standing tall above all their heads to call attention to himself.

Bully―snake-faced, crude, and boundary-pushing as ever―had grown only more brash and confident with Guzma's departure from the gang. As Bully posed and entertained the giggling mass of teenagers, Guzma noticed that the kid sported nasty bruises and scrapes on his forearms, left proudly on display. And while the marks on Bully face from Guzma's last beating had long since disappeared, by the mugging Bully gave him, the attack had not been forgotten.

"Hey, ya disrespectful brats!" Bully hollered, stomping the table until the standing glasses rattled and fell to the floor. Despite his scolding words, his mouth spread into a horrible grin. "Dont'cha know who's talkin'?"

Naturally, the grunts gravitated toward the table, aflutter with anticipation. Bully only seemed to revel in the attention, and so he wildly kicked the remaining glasses from the tabletop and jeered.

"That there's Big, Bad Boss Guzma!"

Guzma could tell when he was being mocked; he rankled and took several steps closer to the group, until he stood a but a few yards away.

"Or he _used to be_. I know y'all can't tell," Bully continued, "seein' as he's a suit now, but that guy used to _be_ somebody."

Guzma noticed that the chain dangling from Bully's neck gleamed silver. He used it to retaliate. "Yeah? And who are you? Still not Boss, huh?"

The only bit of goodwill evaporated from Bully's face. He growled. "That don't matter!" To save face, the boy bragged, "Plumeria might be Boss, and pretty-boy there―" (He pointed with free hostility at Gladion, who had since seated himself back beside his sister). "-Might be her top guard dog, but e'erybody around here knows who wears the _pants_ in Team Skull!" To demonstrate this principle, Bully proceeded to make a lewd gesture at his crotch, and the surrounding grunts cackled at his crassness.

...Guzma found himself thinking, was that the entirety of Bully's schtick? He remembered finding it hilarious, but now it came across as desperate and lazy. He swallowed his increasing irritation and decided to use their back-and-forth as an opening. "Look… I dunno why you came, but you can't be here," he told them. "All of you have to leave."

"Huh?" Bully scratched the inside of his ear. "Why?"

"Because you _weren't invited_."

"Yo! I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Bully crossed his arms and sneered, blasting his voice out to address the other grunts. " _Big G_ tellin' us we ain't invited! That's messed up! You the one who told us what it meant to be a member of Team Skull! We don't need permission, and we don't need invitation! We go where we want! Do what we want! Take what we want!"

Guzma scanned their faces. He saw belief―true, innocent faith in every stupid phrase or motto he ever uttered. For all their show of not caring about him, his destructive philosophy lived on in them, unquestioned. How could they be that dense? As to not see that everything he told them was self-serving drivel, meant to justify his own violent impulses? And, at worst, a means to keep them dependent on him, to make them less viable for society and thus more slavishly devoted to this cobbled-together clan? Guzma wanted to explain all of this; he wanted to scream it out. But he didn't know how.

Bully read his astonishment and guilt and mistook its source. He squatted on the table, wrists resting on his knees in a callous pose. He set his eyes on him fearlessly. "I was willing to let it go, ya know? So you ditched―for cash and a chick willing to ride you. Like, whatever. But you had to be a punk about it. Act like you're better than us."

Guzma had an answer to that: _I_ ** _am_** _better than you._ But before he could dishonor himself by actually saying it, Lillie bolted to her feet, causing the chair beneath her to squeal suddenly. Guzma jumped, turned, and was ready to snap at her, thinking she meant to interrupt, but she wasn't looking in his direction at all.

He saw her surprise and a glimpse of fear. Much of the noise from the grunts petered away; Gladion looked, too, though not with the same dramatics as his sister.

Before Guzma could turn his head, Lillie said the telling thing in a shaken voice.

"Mother."

* * *

For a woman who had been bed-ridden all that afternoon, Lusamine appeared remarkably put-together. In the short time since he left her to her own devices, she had dressed herself in her favorite white-and-gold dress and heels, smoothed and combed out her hair until it flowed shapeless down her back, and applied some subtle, final touches to her make-up. All this was meant to communicate to her guests that _everything was fine_ , a message that, she soon discovered, had come too late.

So for the time being, she entered the dining hall and stood there, taking in the details of what had smashed her event to pieces. She gazed first at the grunts, who, for their part, saw her but didn't know what to make of her. Their opinions of her had always been divided, and since her claiming of Guzma as her own, this division only grew; no one, though, seemed particularly eager to confront or challenge her, and the grunts went quiet and attentive in her presence. They looked to each other. Snickering and murmuring became the primary noises in the room.

She then cast her eyes in another direction, and identified her two children. Her face twitched. Her eyes went cold. Trembling started in her arms. She looked away.

"Miss L," Guzma cried, fumbling for her. When he reached her, he instinctively latched onto her arm to press her toward the door. "What are you _doing_? You shouldn't be here―"

Her veneer of strength faltered for a split second; she flinched at his touch and maneuvered herself away, as if frightened. Quickly, though, she recovered and put on a false face of calm. She gently pushed his hand aside. "You didn't… Come back… I wanted to see… All this fuss…"

" _You gotta go back to your room_."

Lusamine invoked her old temperament―that of the unflappable, charming lady with dewy eyes and flush lips. She smiled, drooped her eyelashes to add mystery, and floated a few steps past him. "My," she said, drawing a finger to her mouth. Her voice, though emulating her usual soothing tone, had a weak bent that made her seem all the more vulnerable. She surveyed the grumbling teenagers. "You always did… Have a penchant for drawing unconventional guests…" Her voice darkened. "Traitors… and miscreants… All together."

"Miss," he said, breathless with anxiety, "they're leaving soon, all right? But you gotta―"

Watching this interaction between the couple caused Bully to erupt with boredom, jealousy, and wrath; boredom because no one was throwing fists, jealousy because all attention had drifted to them, and wrath because he identified Lusamine as a source of trouble. So Bully stomped on the table again, drawing all eyes on him. "Yo, lady! You should listen to your boy! We're _dangerous_! So scram!"

For different reasons, Guzma and Lusamine both gave him a nasty glare. But while Guzma tried to use the interruption as momentum, reaching out for her arm to again lead her out of the hall, Lusamine side-stepped him. Against her better judgment, she spoke. "...Dangerous? I highly doubt it."

Guzma's sense of dread only grew. He did _not_ need these two going after each other. But Lusamine handily evaded his intervention, and as much as he wanted to, he didn't have grounds to drag her off physically.

Bully, not helping matters, swung his arms around and howled, "Yeah right! We could wipe the floor with you any day of the week!"

"Man, shut _up_ ," Guzma finally vented.

"Yo, we're just spittin'! It ain't even that serious." Bully, pink-eared and huffing, flopped down and rested his legs over the edge of the table, thumping his heel occasionally against the wood by kicking backward. The grunts and their pokemon had gone virtually silent with bated-breath, waiting to see how this would resolve. But after a moment, Bully's poorly-hidden hostility gave way to mischief; he saw Guzma trying to speak to her, maybe even persuade her to ignore him, and decided to interrupt. "Hey, Miss, I gotta question for you."

...It was too late. There was no way Guzma would be able to stop him now, or extract her, and Guzma knew from experience that the question was going to be something stupid and terrible―but of course she didn't know, so she blithely walked into it. "Yes?"

"Big G give you the D yet or what?"

The tension in the room collapsed as the grunts broke out into elated screaming, though if one looked carefully, one could tell the very young ones laughed along with puzzled expressions; a small group of older boys, sitting close to Bully and obviously his friends, laughed more severely than any others, obnoxiously throwing themselves over each other, kicking over chairs, and giving the joke far more credit than it deserved.

Those not on Team Skull stayed respectfully silent, showing a mixture of disbelief, disgust, discomfort, and―primarily from Guzma―barely-contained rage.

Yet, as time passed, and the commotion died down, attention began to linger again on Lusamine.

She stood absolutely still. Serene. Untouched. In fact, no one could say for sure if she had blinked.

She even smiled, pixie-like and entirely composed.

This fact, above anything else, unnerved Bully. Once he finished his round of self-congratulation, he stiffened and curled his lip at her, considering whether she was crazy or worse.

Lusamine proceeded to take a few steps forward and purr, "How old are you?"

Bully started to fidget nervously, exuding discomfort. "Whazzat got to do with anything?"

"...If your parents were to hear that sort of talk coming from your mouth… I would think they'd be very ashamed."

In their short minute of conversation, Lusamine had already reached a sensitive spot; Bully was so moved, that he hopped down from the table, shuffled toward her, and sputtered furiously. "What!? Are you on _drugs_ or something? You stupid? You don't know nothin'!"

"I think… You are a very rude young man," she said, voice still eerily even.

"Whatever, trick!"

Bully started to froth and spit; the grunts wanted to express their shock, and some gasped and oohed, but the atmosphere had changed―the joy to the spectacle had been wrung out, leaving an awkward, uncomfortable weight to the air.

Lusamine dimly looked around herself. "By your friends' reactions… I suppose that must be some sort of derogatory term… But, dear… It's simply more effective to use words I can understand…"

"That ain't my problem!" The angrier he became, the higher his voice became, until it nearly squeaked with contention. "Read a dictionary, ho!"

(The same cluster of boys sputtered and collapsed into each other, barely breathing for snickering; the rest were dead silent).

Her eyes and tone turned ice-cold. "A little boy like yourself... should watch what he says..."

"I ain't afraid of you!" Bully cocked his head and gave her a sneering glance-over. "What are you gonna do? Huh? Janky, old, drag-queen-lookin'―"

Bully, it could be said, was the sort who never learned his lesson. The grunts didn't have time to warn him―not that they would have, because they were raring for a fight, and really, to talk trash to someone's girl like that, he got what was coming to him. So Guzma plowed into him, toppled him from the table, snagged him by the shirt, and slammed him to the floor, raising a fist to bring down―and the crowd of grunts closed in around them, filling the dining hall with peals of thrilled noise.

Perhaps Lusamine might have felt some validation or pride at receiving such a raucous defense, but the outburst of violence served mostly to startle her; she stumbled backwards to avoid being swept up by the crowd of onlookers.

Gladion announced matter-of-factly to his sister, "We'd better go."

On their way out, Lillie saw that their mother hadn't moved, seemingly frozen in place just feet from the chaos. She tried to do the noble thing. She didn't tell Gladion her intentions―she doubted he would have approved, anyway―and rushed over to Lusamine's side. In the frenzy of the moment, she did not even hesitate when she reached out to take her mother by the wrist, in an effort to pull her away.

Before Lusamine saw who it was, she actually yielded a little, stepping backward and allowing herself to be drawn toward escape. But she turned her head, her face pale from alarm and the sudden resurgence of exhaustion, her eyes gone dim… And upon seeing Lillie, the reaction came immediately. She snapped her arm away, hissing, like the touch seared her. All the indifference and fear broke, and hatred, unadulterated, poured out in the form of a snarl.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!"

Lillie, swallowing her hurt, didn't retreat, but tried to think of something to say. She tried to reach out again.

"Lillie," Gladion called out. "Let's go."

Lillie frowned and thought of what to say. She put her hand down and looked to her mother. "I-I'm just…" Lillie spoke, but her voice could just barely rise above the din. "I'm just trying to help."

The children still roared. Guzma and Bully still crashed through the dining hall. Lusamine still glared, like Lillie was some putrid thing she had stepped in.

Finally, Lillie left and couldn't bear to look back.

* * *

Outside, Nanu was finishing his cigarette and standing with false diligence. His nearly monochrome pallette almost caused them to miss him entirely, as the shadows and darkness covered his ashen complexion, graying hair, and black police uniform. However, his keen red eyes cut through the night, cat-like, and he narrowed his gaze at the two of them once they brought themselves out onto the deck.

"Cops are here," Nanu helpfully announced. He lifted his head to watch the confusion of upturned tables and jumping children. "What happened in there?"

Lillie was ready to tell the whole story, so Gladion abbreviated: "Bully is obnoxious, and Mr. Guzma is a hot-head."

"Oh." Nanu dropped the stub of his cigarette overboard, letting the wind take it. "So… a 'water's wet' kinda situation."

Simultaneously, they turned their heads at hearing a Golisopod roar.

Gladion sighed and put a hand to his forehead. "At least now it's a pokemon battle. You said the police have arrived?"

"I just seen 'em roll up that a-way," Nanu said, pointing a thumb toward the docking ramp. If they angled their heads, they could see a crowd of upset guests gathering there. "I think it's Mele'mele's crew. Haven't actually said hi yet."

Gladion took that as a reason to move; the police would be confronting Team Skull eventually, and they wouldn't want to be caught in the middle. He started down the hall, thinking they'd join the rest of the guests and crew, but found himself walking alone for several steps.

When he turned around, he saw Lillie still enraptured by the images beyond the glass. He almost snapped at her, but she was too wilted and pathetic to deserve his impatience.

She noticed him waiting and apologized by stammering, "It's… just terrible, isn't it?"

"Terrible?" Gladion huffed. It wasn't exactly the word he'd use. _Exasperating_ , maybe.

"To see her… Like that…" Lillie's eyes trailed back to the dining hall.

Because he couldn't help himself, he followed her eyes for a moment, and saw, too, Lusamine standing petrified by pride.

Gladion never could wrap his head around why Mother chose Team Skull. Guzma, he could fathom… Because as a leader, he represented the only part of the operation that had any desire for law and order. Lusamine could work with order, and mold the presuppositions that come with a mind craving instruction and validation. But Team Skull, as an organism, lacked cohesion. In most ways, it was her nightmare scenario: no respect for elders, no sense of discipline, no duty, no rules, no strict hierarchy. Indeed, Gladion had gone to them precisely because he thought that would be the one group she'd avoid at all costs. She should have loathed them and plucked Guzma out of the gang as soon as she set her eyes on him; instead, she fed the group under the table for months as a sponsor.

It was delusion, he decided. The same delusion that convinced her she could drive the beasts out into the world and thereby accomplish a beautiful vision. When she set her eyes on a writhing hydra, its throats curling into itself, flouting its lawlessness, its power, its disorder… She could not help but arrogantly assume the place of its tamer.

It seemed fitting―perhaps even poetic―that one serpent-head would finally wrap around to bite her.

Lillie felt sorry for her. He could understand that. He knew the extenuating circumstances driving his mother's behavior. But as for himself… Gladion reserved his pity.

"She can take care of herself," he reassured her, though to be honest, he wasn't as certain as all that.

* * *

Officer Hitchens arrived with his fleet of policeman and a highly-irritable temper. By his mussed hair and uniform, the guests could tell the call came at an inconvenient time for him; among his remarks, he said he was "just about to sit down with a beer." But after climbing aboard the ship, he assessed the situation the best he could, visibly cringing as more factors added up: the President of Aether, whom the police knew to be high maintenance; Guzma, whom Hitchens knew too well; and Team Skull, a group never easily cornered and extracted. And not only that, but Hitchens had the unpleasant duty of trying to calm a huge throng of hysterical upper-class men and women, who bayed about every scratch and indignity they endured.

When Gladion, Lillie, and Nanu arrived, Hitchens expressed mixed feelings at spotting the kahuna. He approached and folded his arms. "Nanu. Figures I'd find your wrinkly rear where the trouble is."

Nanu smirked. "No need to flirt, Hitch; I know you're happy to see me."

"Drunk, too," Hitchens observed wryly. "Good to see a kahuna taking his duties so seriously. Is that why I had to bust over here so quick?"

"Pfft. Don't complain. Sooner be here than in bed with the wifey, huh?" Nanu slumped with a guffaw, then realized the children still stood by him. He motioned sloppily with his hands. "Sss-orry kids, adult humor…"

The old friends bantered only a little more before the guests got impatient again. Hitchens eventually broke away to stand before the crowd and explain the situation. The ship would be turned around and docked at Hau'oli, he said. Everyone would need to deboard to clear the ship and head to the station to make statements, in particular anyone who was a victim of a crime.

One guest sobbed melodramatically, "We're all victims here!"

Hitchens grimaced fiercely and squinted through a pair of reading glasses. He was fumbling in the dark over an initial report that he meant to fill out. "Yeah… I don't have paperwork for 'hurt feelings,' so… Let's keep it to the good stuff. Robbery, arson, assault…"

(No one had ever accused Hitchens of having a good bedside manner.)

As for Team Skull, a group of policemen did quickly make an attempt at encircling the dining hall, but the number of exits and connecting stairway, combined with the small available number of officers, meant the exercise turned out futile. From the standpoint of the gathered guests, they heard only additional crashing and yelling, and saw skull grunts scamper unheeded upstairs or back to the other end of the ship. A few cops brought back Lusamine, who walked without any assistance and was greeted at by a clutch of alarmed friends.

She didn't talk much. In fact, the only words out of her proved to be so cutting and cruel that, slowly, gradually, each person who came to console her crept away. Within minutes, Lusamine sat herself entirely alone on the front suite steps, darkly crawling her eyes over the guests, as if she thought the fault was in part theirs. She did not deign to look in her children's direction, of course, and she similarly seemed to have no interest in talking to the police.

The fight in the dining hall had been effectively broken up, in any case, so while the police were unsuccessful in snatching any criminals, they did return with Guzma. In handcuffs.

All of Lusamine's collected attitude shattered; she rose up and screamed like she was being actively tortured. Whether it was genuine indignation at an unfair detainment, or the pure shame of her fiance being restrained in public, no one knew―but the rage was obviously real.

"What are on earth you _doing_?" She flew at the pair of police. "Get him out of those now! I'll sue―! I'll see to it that you mop floors for the rest of your life―!"

While she caterwauled, Guzma had to take on the unnatural role of diplomat; her tantrum embarrassed him more than the cuffs, and with the fight over, his energy had simmered down, giving him the cool head needed to talk her down. "I ain't arrested―just relax."

Momentarily, she stopped screeching long enough to see his bruised jaw. She swirled her hands through his hair and about his face, and practically wept, "Oh, oh, darling what did they do to you?"

"...It's fine," he said, lamely adding, "you should see the other guy."

So in front of a good collection of guests and police, she fawned, cooed, and whimpered, standing on her toes to pepper his mouth with kisses. Guzma mumbled, as if unhappy about it, but tellingly, he neither moved nor told her to stop.

The gushing was eventually interrupted by a grumpy sigh from the head Mele'mele officer. "...Ugh, god." Hitchens stiffly approached, cleared his throat at them, and slowly rolled his eyes when this nonverbal cue didn't work. "Okay, you two. Break it up." As they unwound, the officer gave Guzma a snide look. "Long time, no see," he said.

Guzme wisely didn't reply, but his face hardened.

"Still remember booking you as a little guy. Snatching tourists' purses and other nonsense. Good old days, huh?" Hitchens waved a signal at the attending officers, who promptly unfastened the cuffs. "Speaking of: don't suppose you have any advice for getting your old buddies out of here?"

As Guzma rubbed his freed wrists, he chose to grunt rather than reply.

"Officer…?" Lusamine folded her hands and stepped closer, trying not to show her irritation at being overlooked. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Huh?" Hitchens, from his height, had to look down to meet her eyes. "Oh. It's Hitchens." He blinked slothfully at her, then looked back at Guzma. "We'll be at Hau'oli in fifteen."

The first slight Hitchens made was not addressing her right away, ignoring her and not introducing himself properly. For that, she could forgive him, perhaps even attribute it to a lack of attention. But by the second slight―the pulling away from her to talk to Guzma, as if she wasn't there―she was irked, and started to read into his behavior pattern uncharitably. It was the way he looked at her. Talked at her. Talked _over_ her. It set her hair on end.

Thankfully, she called up her training. She squeezed her wrist, swallowed, and forced a warm smile. "Officer Hitchens. Thank you for responding to this unfortunate incident. I know it must be an inconvenience…"

The buttering up wasn't particularly working. He squinted and seemed distracted.

"But I hope you can understand… I'd like this resolved as quickly as possible."  
"Oh," Hitchens said, sounding unimpressed and a bit amused, "would you, now?"

"Yes, of course." Lusamine eyed him. "How long do you suppose it will take for us to be back on schedule? Two, three hours?"

"Hmm… Well, that's… Huh. Three hours…?" Hitchens' mouth creased into a small, restrained smirk. He rubbed his ear in thought. "That's a bit… Optimistic, don't ya think?"

"Optimistic? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Well, little lady," he began, slipping his palm up against his cap and sliding his voice into a lilting, condescending tone, "first we have to clear the area, get everyone off the ship―apprehend the kids, which could take a while―they're all over the place, and there's only so many of us―then we have to assess the damage, conduct an investigation, take statements―it's a bit technical, ma'am, I hope you understand."

 _Strike three_. Lusamine sucked in a sharp breath, then said, "Let's step inside and talk in private. There's a lounge behind us." She didn't wait for Hitchens to agree with her terms, but turned heel past the stairs. As she passed her fiance, she snipped at him. " _Guzma_."

"Huh?"

She saw his blank, dumb look and answered by abruptly snagging his arm and pulling him along.

* * *

"This is all _entirely_ unacceptable."

Guzma flopped into one of the sofa chairs, exhausted and expecting a long, drawn out screed. It took Lusamine mere seconds after they entered the lounge to turn on the officer in full, froth-mouthed fashion.

"Not only are you _incapable_ of doing your job in a timely manner, but now you're vacating the area?"

Hitchens' eyes very briefly trailed to Guzma, thinking that he might want to add something, but naturally, he didn't. The cop shrugged. "Look. This isn't a suggestion. It's just how it's gotta be―"

"I don't know if you realize this," she snarled sharply, "but this is a _wedding_. We are supposed to have our wedding ceremony tomorrow morning, in approximately twelve hours. Can you at least assure us that you won't allow this to disrupt _that_?"

"Ma'am, does it _look_ like there's gonna be a wedding in twelve hours?"

Lusamine went frighteningly quiet.

"We'll just―" Guzma, exasperated, spoke up to play diplomat again. "Move the time, it's fine."

"Fine?!" Lusamine exploded―her volume and speed accelerating exponentially. "You think it's ' _fine_ '? It is absolutely _not_ fine, and I would appreciate not having to listen your _asinine analysis_ of the situation, _thank you_!"

The conversation screeched to a halt. Guzma, not as much hurt as he was despondent, sat back and looked to the ceiling; Lusamine folded her arms tightly and stewed silently. At this point, Hitchens realized why she wanted to talk in private; he clicked his tongue in thought. " _Well then._ I guess..."

But before he could even formulate a thought, Lusamine aimed at him. "Don't. You. Start. I don't need to be patronized by some small-town, backwater, uneducated yokel in a uniform! And if you think I'm going to step aside while you and your collection of mouthbreathers fumble uselessly around―!"

Hitchens let her ramble freely as long as he could, but finally lost his patience. He stepped up, red-faced. "Listen, you crazy broad! I don't have to take this kinda lip from you!"

Lusamine's face drained of color; Guzma, like an animal excited by an unheard pitch, scrambled to his feet and rushed toward both of them.

"I get it―your wedding plans are a bust―I see you put a lotta effort into, real shame, but lady―"

"You…" As Lusamine interrupted, her voice and breathing deepened and crackled with hatred. "You…! Had better…! Watch your tone with me, or I'll…! I'll be speaking to your superiors about this, I promise you!"

"Yeah, okay, sweetheart. You do that. Now―"

The white in her face turned to purple, and a murderous impulse shot through her body. Fortunately, in the split second before she raised her arm to commit a felony, Guzma had reached them and, knowing her intentions, clamped down on her upper arms, pinning them to her sides. As he started to extract her by pulling her backwards, she shrieked and struggled. "Get your hands _off_ of me!"

She managed to twist herself about and start shoving against his chest. Guzma mostly ignored it and growled at her, still tugging her as far from the officer as possible. " _Miss L_ , stop."

"Let go of me this instant!" Her hands flew around, in a flurry of claws and teeth. She yowled like a cat caught by the tail.

Guzma howled, "I'm tryin' to keep you from bein' arrested!"

"Let him arrest me!" Lusamine wriggled free and tried to make another lunge, but Guzma maneuvered his body between them and took hold of her shoulders again. The officer did not show any sign of feeling threatened―in fact, a small smirk had developed at the corner of his mouth, throwing her into another convulsion of rage. She barked nastily at him, pushing around Guzma's frame, "Pig! I'll have your badge!"

The cop snorted an unoffended laugh. "Uh-huh. Whatever you say, doll." He waved at Guzma, blithely turning for the exit. "I'll be outside."

Lusamine continued to throw insults at him, to no effect, and once he disappeared, she turned her wrath on Guzma, upbraiding him while thrashing her arms about against his restraining grip. "Are you going to let him get away with talking to me like that?"

"I'm not fighting a cop for you! Okay! Anyway, he's right―you're being crazy!"

Impressively, she didn't let up struggling, so he dealt with it the only way he knew: he shoved her down onto a nearby lounge sofa, forcing her to sit. She landed awkwardly and off-balance, but after some huffing and readjusting, she sat up straight and glared at him furiously.

"Stop picking fights with everybody, okay!" As he scolded her, he found he had to catch his breath; he was just about physically spent. He plopped himself down, seating himself next to her and slumping forward. "We can… We can figure this out, but it ain't gonna work, if we don't…" He slipped his hands around his face and scalp, groaning. "I wasn't thinking."

"Oh? You mean when you threw yourself at that child, like a wild ape?"

"Hey, you're _welcome_."

Lusamine turned away from him, pouting. "I did _not_ ask you to start a brawl, and you're delusional if you think that's what I wanted."

"Yeah, well, you stayed for like the _whole thing_. You're crazy." He frowned and rested his chin in his propped hand. "You shoulda left when I told you to."

"I can't fathom what difference that would have made. You would have found some excuse to become violent, with or without me present."

Guzma snapped, "I wish I knew how to make you listen to me!"

Perhaps he didn't mean it, the way it sounded, but Lusamine snarled her fingers into her skirt and suggested nastily, "Have you thought about beating me? I hear it's a favored tactic among brutes like you."

Like all her calculated statements, this one struck the heart. Guzma stared at her, speechless. It must have been a full minute of this pained silence before he stood up. "I'm…" He rubbed his neck and averted his eyes. "I'm gonna go check on... everybody…"

Guzma slipped out. With that, Lusamine sat alone in the lounge, admiring its countertops and tables, its smooth white tile floor, its tropical ferns meant to give it life, its relaxed feel. It would have been a good place, she thought, for in-between times, with nothing else going on. Guests could have sat at the full-service bar, or kicked up their feet.

It glistened and gleamed, all shiny with _could-have's_.

* * *

Lusamine remained there for nearly an hour, unmoved. Outside, she could hear the steady sounds of people talking, but once the ship docked, these sounds began a gradual creeping away, as more and more of the guests successfully made it off the boat. No one came to address her. The only company she received in that time was that of a pair of grunts, who ran inside from another entrance, saw her, and promptly scurried out in the other direction.

After a long enough silence, she decided there was simply nothing else to do but get up. Her limbs rebelled, sleepy and stiff, but she wrenched them as she willed, forcing herself back outside. A fog seemed to envelop her head and vision, making shapes hard to make out in the bleak night, but she hobbled to the outside railing of the ship, grasped it, and balanced herself until the blur passed.

A cop, seeing her, approaching cautiously to tell her, "We were just about to come get you. Your family's waiting for you; we're ready for you to deboard."

Family…? She wanted to ask the idiot what family he meant, as all her family was in the ground, but the sour words wouldn't even budge from her throat. So she stared at him until he let her be.

The guests, she could see from the pier lights, stood out on Hau'oli's docks, crowded along the platform, some of them venturing up toward the city. Luggage was being checked out―with only a few hours left of the evening, the guests would need their belongings for an overnight at a hotel.

 _Cowards._

Above everyone, watching from the roof-top floor, hanging like vultures over the railing, were a pack of grunts, this time accompanied by Plumeria. Her Salazzle lurked beside her, snickering and adding to her look of cruel satisfaction.

 _Scoundrels._

And at last, at her level on the deck of the ship, stood the police, Hitchens still gabbing with Nanu, another officer speaking with the ship's captain, and her two children, waiting patiently with Guzma, who apparently didn't know who else to confide in.

 _Traitors._

So, this is her company now. This is who surrounds her at all times. This is all she has.

All the elements added up in her brain: the police, her fiance, her children, Team Skull, the wedding guests…

And something snapped.

"I need you to leave," she said aloud.

At first, everyone looked around, suspecting she meant them. Honestly, she _could_ have been addressing anyone: her children, the grunts overlooking them, Guzma…

Lusamine didn't clarify at first, but circled a few times, as if dizzy, until she turned her wrath right back at Officer Hitchens. "You," she growled. "You―all of your men―off this ship at once!"

Hitchens turned from his lazy chat with Nanu, slowly removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes, muttering, "Huh, what?"

But rather than explain herself, she turned to the captain. "Captain, is the crew still on board?"

The ship captain, hat tucked under his arm, looked at her in amazement. Eventually, he confessed, "Yes, Madame."

"Then there's no problem. We'll set off straight away."

The captain glanced about himself, hoping someone would explain what had gotten into her. He had the bravery to ask, "But, Madame… Your guests have deboarded. Don't you think..."

"Do you think I care!? All those cowards―can't even stand up to group of rowdy children!"

Hitchens, catching up, uttered in disbelief, "And you _realize_ those kids are still there, right?" He pointed up at the rooftop; helpfully, Team Skull hooted and waved. "You _realize_ ―"

"It doesn't matter! I want you to leave, now!"

That another shouting match had started didn't surprise Guzma at all, but this time, he showed no rush to intervene. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him talking to the children emphatically, probably in league with them. Lusamine could see it: alliances, forming against her.

Hitchens noticed Guzma's avoidance as well, and promptly complained, "Hey, kid! Would you c'mere and get your woman under control? Sweet almighty…"

"I _beg_ your pardon!?"

Nanu frowned and clapped a hand over his ear. He should have known better than to stand this close around these two: he knew Hitchens could be a charmless dog.

In the end, the argument carried on, and when Guzma could no longer put it off, he came over to sort through it. It took several iterations of her demands for him to make sense of them, which naturally meant he had to argue with her, too. The three―because Nanu took no part in it―continued this back-and-forth, with essentially no one on the others' side, until Hitchens threw his hands up in frustrated surrender.

"You know what? Fine! We'll go. Have fun with―whatever this is." As he sputtered and pulled at his radio, he looked between Lusamine and Guzma, puffing and shaking his head, "You two nutcases deserve each other."

The call went out. Watching the policeman gather at the deboarding area and climb down the stairs felt strangely cathartic to her, now, like it was the last bit of pain she needed to endure before death. Guzma didn't understand at all; he kept asking why, as if she knew the answer. But all she knew was: no more struggle. No more dragging this out, fighting for it, rearranging or negotiating.

Loss meant peace, and that's what this was.

Lusamine tried to return to her room. She was tired, and all she wanted now was the sleep forever, but as she started up the stairs toward the wing of suites, Guzma refused to let it go. He still brayed and demanded, climbing the stairs after her.

"I just don't know what you want! What do you _want_?"

She reached a center step and stopped. "What do you think I want?"

"I _thought_ you wanted to get married."

Lusamine gripped the stair railing―seethed―and broke out into another shriek, turning herself to confront him. "Don't pretend this isn't what _you_ wanted! To humiliate me―"

"I don't know what you're talking about! You see me trying to fix this!"

"All of you!" She stomped her foot, and as she spoke, her voice began to break and shudder. "You want me to suffer, don't you! So, I'll suffer! For your amusement! Now, will you be happy?"

As he scratched his head and puzzled over her reasoning, she continued back up the stairs, hurrying her pace to evade him.

"Miss," he said. She kept going. "Miss L, stop. Miss―"

When he grabbed her wrist, she pulled away and kept going.

" _Lu_. Miss―Lusamine, you gotta listen, you've lost it, all right? _Please_."

* * *

Finally, she reached her room. Guzma, a picture of persistence, ignored the taunting of the grunts above the stairwell and said anything he could think of to convince her―all his plans, how they could still get off the ship and change the date and make this work, but she wasn't interested anymore.

Lusamine entered her suite, shut the door, and locked it behind her.

She knew then that she was safe.

She crumpled to the floor, leaning her back against the door as she did. Guzma still banged his fist on the door and called out to her; she shut her eyes and covered her ears, until they sealed in like iron. She stayed like that, cocooned and impenetrable, until agonizing minutes passed and the sound and rattling stopped.

When she got up and crossed the room, she didn't turn on a light, instead fumbling forward in the darkness until her body collided with the bed. She fell to her knees, clinging to the edge of the bed. For a time, she couldn't find the strength to move. She clawed at the blankets with her fingers. Nausea started in her gut, and she fought it with raw gasps for air.

Finally, she made the last grasp at strength necessary to pull herself up onto the bed, crawl under the covers, and keep herself safe from the world.

She took a pillow and screamed into it―screamed, screamed, until her lungs hurt, and the sound popped her ears, and her vision blurred for lack of air.

Then, silence.

It didn't last long: far away, as if from another world, she could hear the laughter of children. The sea gurgled, the wind tore, her body trembled with sick.

A familiar, inward voice sneered, _This is what you get._

"Shut up," she whispered, throwing a pillow over her head.

 _How ever did you fool yourself into thinking anything else_?

"Please."

 _It's fate. It's fate, don't you remember? Fight as you will, but fate..._

She looked up into the murky blackness, the ceiling coiling with slimy ropes of flesh, dripping, oozing from a spiral of shining teeth. It moaned from its belly and asked her:

 _Darling, didn't I tell you? That this is how it would end?_

And it all came back to her―like a channel of fire searing open her veins―and she thought, desperately, is that when it started? Had all her misery started that night when He l҉͈̟̬͖̜̗o̗͎͢o͉͜k͍e̪̼̺̝̬̺͟d҉̗̼ ̢͓̱͕h̙̣͖̤͓e͎̩̗̭͡r̗̻͈̜ ̢̻̦͍̦̳͈i͔n ̹̬̜̠̜͘t̬̺͍̦̙̯ͅḩ̲̫̭͕ͅe͖̞͍̱ ҉ͅe҉̞͈̣͔yẹ̫̬s̳̳͓ ạ̟̹̘̺n̵͚̭͉̗͞d̗͎̙̩͚͞ ̷͕͔̬̮͇̙̠͟ͅt̶̺̗̻ͅo̸̜̟̙̳͙̣̞̯o҉͇̘͉̯̦k͎̼̪͇͎̘ͅ ̢̨̱̟̯h̶̗͓̮̬̬͝e̩̬̪̝͡r̭̮͢͠ ̦̬̗̖̦͍̞͘̕b̛͚̰̥̻̲̘͓̗̤̣̖̳̮̱̤͕̳͢͜͡y̸̧̲̱̝̙͞͠ ̴̳̣͇͙̜̜͇̱̥̖͍̠͍̤̺̖͕͈͢t̵̖̦̜͖̙̲͔͎̮̣h̶̸̖͕̼̺̗̖̣̭̭̜͖̺̟ͅe̴̲̲̜̼̟ ̸̸̡̡͎͎̲͔̗͕̖̲̦̰͓̰h͟҉̶̦͙̪̭͚͉͔̭̟̪̦͘a̶̧̛͈̻̤͉̼͈͢͝ņ͕̼̜̩͙̠͖͎̤͉̣̼͎͕̮̻̥͕͘͜Ǝ̛̤̠̼̜̣̕͢Ż̤̣̬̺͙̘͙̱̯̖͈̤̥̺̕͢͢Ț̶̷̸̺̻͓̱̭̩̱̻̯͖͈͙̮͠Ṣ͜͠҉̷̠̟͎͓Ạ̶̟̣͔̉͜͝͝ử̵̡̛̹̗̗͓̜̟͎͞ợ̳̹̻̱͓͍͖͙̙̬͚͓̲͈͓̮̙̯̜ỵ҉̡̞͓̼̼̟ų̶͚̙̱͕̯͔̜͔̳̞̯̬̥̭̜̻̗ͅX͏͏͉̠̝̣̝͎̩̲͕̯̯͉͍͕̻͓̺̙̕͟ʌ̡̝̱͉̦͈̭̮̣̝̥̰͜ͅɔ̡̫̺̜̪͕̹̳͟͝Ⅎ̢̠͍̜̥̟̥̤̠̘̥͓͖̯͍͔̺͈͖͢ᐴ̡̜͈̪̺̦̰̩̺̱̣̮̮͖͈̟̱̩̲͢ͅ

/ /ERROR

/ /CORRUPTED MEMORY FILES DETECTED

/ /PLEASE STAND BY


	24. Ego Sum Nihil - MemoryDisc1: Fire

_/ /ERROR_

 _/ /CORRUPTED MEMORY FILES DETECTED_

 _/ /RUNNING RESTORATION PROCESS ON 1 OF 6 FILES..._

 _...6%_

 _...15%_

 _/ /MEMORY DISC_1 IS RESTORED AND READY TO RUN_

 _/ /RUN DISC_1 NOW WHILE OTHER FILES ARE RESTORED? (Y/N)_

 _/ **Y**_

* * *

 **RUN::MEMORY_DISC_1: FIRE**

/ /As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

* * *

Everyone who knew the LeBlanc family knew that the closer together Lucienne and Nikolai stood, the further the two siblings regressed in age. It worked as precisely and consistently as natural law―like the force of gravity. So by the time Lucienne, at nineteen, and Nikolai, at thirteen, joined one another at the charity banquet that night, they had transformed into petty, squalling toddlers, scratching, pulling, and calling each other names.

Fortunately for everyone involved, none of the guests had arrived quite yet, so the only witnesses were serving staff trying to cart food, cutlery, and finishing touches around the siblings in the dining room. The huge array of tables, topped with fine white linen and expensive glass fixtures, had been prepared earlier in the day, and Lucienne, who only ever attended her father's events in hopes of establishing new connections with celebrities and politicians, started poking around about five-thirty, thinking she might spy on the names on the table placards, thereby generating a social strategy for the night. The fight with her little brother only started because as she looked over one particular table, a hot snap of electricity zapped her rear end. She screamed, whirled around. And there, floating just out of reach, was her brother's Magnemite. Immediately she spotted him seated at a table a few spots down; he buckled and kicked with laughter.

"That was brilliant!" Nikolai had to push his glasses back onto his face, against the force of his snickering. "The look on your face right now!"

"Dead!" Lucienne screamed. She launched herself at him, and he hurriedly scrambled from his chair once he saw her wrath. "You're dead, dead, _dead_!"

In running through the dining room and into the outer hallway, they succeeded in toppling several chairs and knocking into one dessert cart, and very narrowly missed tripping a waiter carrying a drink tray. None of the servants they passed, however, including the waiter, dared scold them. So they continued in their path, Nikolai yelping out of a mixture of terror and joy of the chase, and Lucienne describing in morbid detail _exactly_ what she planned for him when she caught him.

* * *

The LeBlanc manor through which they currently ran had not always been one of the centers of high-end social life. The house sat at the northern edge of Lumiose City, not far from the bustle of the sprawling urban center, but despite its opportune location, the place had, until recently, suffered some measure of decline. At its prime, the dukes and duchesses of the LeBlanc family owned much of the area, depending largely on historical wealth and a rural economy, but the city, and changes in the world overall, had made them less relevant over time. By the time Alban took the head of the household, the LeBlancs were virtually bankrupt.

But Alban, a shrewd and careful businessman, proved himself an adaptor to change. Unlike his stuffy descendents, who winced at the idea of downsizing, diversifying capital, or investing in modern enterprise, he made the steep cuts and aggressive investments necessary to bring life and security back to the manor.

While he was a booming success financially, though, less could be said of his parenting skills. Hence his running, screaming teenage children, currently bringing terror down on the servants before his lavish, annual wildlife fundraiser.

While they engaged in their squabble, Alban busily discussed the menu with the head chef in the kitchen, overlooking the hors d'oeuvres selection, the available entrees, the soups and salads, and desserts. He donned his best suit and cravat for the night, and a Noibat nestled and hung sleepily from the back of his coat collar. Alban LeBlanc possessed a classic, dignified sort of attractiveness: square jaw, earthy blonde hair, sturdy frame, and pronounced nose. Though tall and broad-shouldered, and not even sixty yet, a prolonged period of of troubled health a few years back had knocked the physical strength out of him, and so as he hobbled about his house with a cane, he could look shockingly old and delicate.

As for the two children, both sides of their family had a strong, virulent strain of blonde hair that seemed to overpower each game of genetic chance, and their tone of skin was nearly vampiric. The children's high and luxurious beauty came directly from their mother (rest her soul), with her slender and timid face, willowy form, and amber eyes that shone like honey. Even Alban had to admit to that. But for all the children's inheritance of angelic looks, to Alban's despair, neither of them had taken to angelic behavior.

The swinging traffic doors into the kitchen swung open in the middle of his conversation.

A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream of rage cut through the air. It was one of those screams that sounded like it hurt to release. " _DADDY_!"

Alban cringed, shut his eyes, and brought his hand around to the back of his neck to calm the startled Noibat. Under his breath, he murmured a quick, anguished prayer―"Oh, sweet heaven"―and called out, as sweetly and deferentially as he could possibly muster, "Yes? What is it, my Lu-belle?"

He could hear a tussle going on, and he almost didn't want to turn around―as if hoping it would dissolve by not observing it. But continuing talking to the chef would be impossible like this, so he turned around to find his allegedly adult daughter tugging his son through the kitchen. She had Nikolai by the ear and in a headlock while the young boy squirmed and whined; this undignified stance was sadly no stranger to the pair.

Alban reached deeply inside himself and sighed. "All right," he said, sounding horrendously resigned to his fate as referee. "What's going on?"

"Daddy!" Her shrieking had tempered a little, but it still had that grating, screeching quality that made it painful to listen to. "I'm going to take him outside and sell him to the highest bidder!"

"Please don't. That would highly illegal." He shook his head. "Let go of him, dear. You're too old to be wrestling your brother."

"Ugh! Fine." She released him, and the boy huffed and straightened his glasses.

"Now, whatever's gotten into you, darling?"

Lucienne fiercely jabbed a finger into Nikolai's shoulder. "Ask _him_."

Alban shifted his eyes to Nikolai's, a trace of sternness in his gaze.

The boy's face fell; of the two of them, only he had perfected acting sorry, so he fastened his hands behind his back, tilting his head downward, and fidgeted his foot. His big, wet, gold eyes looking upward, glowing with contrition. "Magnemite gave her a _tiny_ zap. That's all. It was just a joke, Papa."

"Gentlemen should not play jokes on ladies, Nikolai. For that matter―no more jokes tonight, all right? We're still recovering from your prank last year."

Despite his best efforts, Nikolai couldn't hold back a devilish smirk. "...It wasn't my fault the sprinkler network was unsecured…"

"Anyhow, Lulu-darling, I wish you'd keep your composure―" As Alban looked over his daughter, he noticed something. "Is…" He frowned, squinting at the fluffy white stole around her shoulders. "Is that Minccino fur?"

Lucienne missed the horror in his tone and scoffed. "Uh, it _better_ be; I paid enough for it."

"For God's―" Alban shook, reddening in the face before putting a hand to his forehead and heaving an exhausted sigh. "Do you…? Even _think_ about these things―this is supposed to be an animal welfare event, and you―"

"What? _What_?" Lucienne glared at Nikolai when he started snickering.

"They don't shave the fur off, stupid," he explained between snorts of laughter.

She shrieked and clapped him atop the head. "I know that! Look, I'm sure it was humane or whatever!"

"Never mind," their father relented desperately. "Just… please, never mind. Now… Could you―" Alban stopped to place a hand to his temple and give it a squeeze. "For my sake, children, could the two of you at least _pretend_ to get along? Just for one evening?"

The two siblings cast side-glares at one another.

"Lucie," their father continued, eager to change the subject, "why don't you bring out one of your pokemon? Other guests will have theirs out, and it might… distract from the… neck area."

Lucienne sniffed, but to curry her father's favor, she complied. She pulled her purse around and rifled through it, eventually producing a black-and-gold ball, and releasing her choice: the pink, bright-eyed Stufful materialized on the kitchen floor, lifting its furry head to examine its surroundings, and immediately fluffing up its tail and ducking under Lucienne's legs. It cowered and growled at her father.

"...That one…?" Alban eyed the small raccoon-bear skeptically. "You don't want to bring out one that's a little more friendly?"

Her green eyes narrowed at him. "No, I _don't_."

Nikolai craned his neck at it and wrinkled his nose. "Isn't that the one your _boyfriend_ gave you?"

"All right!" Alban could see another argument brewing, so he promptly placed his hands on their shoulders, turning them around and ushering them out the door. "Out of the kitchen, both of you. And _behave_. Guests will be arriving within the hour."

As they trotted out into the dining room, a banner reading "THE 9th ANNUAL AETHER INSTITUTE FUNDRAISER" raised over the back wall.

* * *

After nine years, Lucienne knew all the guests who would attend. The rich and famous, the conscientious royals, businessmen, entrepreneurs, designers, television and film producers… She had worked, connected, flirted, dated, charmed, persuaded, and conversed her way through every single one at some point or another, whether at this event or some related location. She took it as a point of pride to never forget a name or face, lest she lose possible future advantage. So now, even though she hadn't lived at the manor proper for nearly two years, she attended the banquet religiously, scouting for more threads to tie.

This year, though, she noticed some new attendees.

They were not the same breed as the rest. They dressed in less refined style, and did not carry the same haughty attitude that came with assurance of wealth and class. The group was composed of at least seven people, young (in their twenties and thirties), and male. By their mannerisms and actions once inside the manor, she guessed they were students from universities and graduate schools in, and possibly beyond, the area.

Of course, she thought, realizing it now. That project her father had been going on about. Was he finally making a move on it? She would have thought he'd wait for the tenth banquet to announce anything publicly―he was the sort who liked making decision on round numbers. But on the other hand, he may be simply lining up possibilities… Making plans.

Lucienne chatted up one of father's old friends, but kept a close eye on this new, fresh-faced group. They did not all seem to know each other, but they were greeted by Alban as one unit, further solidifying her theory that they related to his project. She judged them as individuals; as she looked them over, she mentally labelled them plain-faced, bespectacled, serious, attentive, wary.

But two of them in particular caught her eye for longer than the rest.

They had clearly come together. She could tell by the way they talked, moved, and interacted; they stood at an intimate distance that she only ever saw in friends. The two young men were quite the pair, which was what caused her to linger her attention on them: one stood straight-backed, broad-shouldered, with radiant color to his skin, a proud head of gold hair, and confident, easygoing posture; the other man slumped impishly, possessing a thready body and vaguely sickly face, balancing thick-rimmed glasses on his long nose, and wearing limp, receding hair in the form of a combover. If one pictured the stereotype of "jock" and "nerd," one would probably come up with two people not unlike these. Despite their polar opposite appearances, they hovered closely to one another. The jock (oh, she needed to get their names; this would not do at all) periodically reached out to put a hand on the other's shoulder or back. She could not tell how comfortable the smaller man was with this, but he seemed used to it.

Lucienne didn't keep watch forever, of course, eventually losing them in the crowd. Alban gave a group announcement that she couldn't hear, but the effect of it was immediate: a number of guests released their pokemon to freely attend them through the reception area.

As she looked out to make casual observations about their choices, she suddenly saw something… Unwanted.

 _Oh, no._

Mr. Brooks.

She had thought for _sure_ he wouldn't come here tonight, but there he was, dressed in his ridiculous white suit and beret, talking with Dupont.

He started to turn his head, and her heart leaped. She grabbed her Stufful and ducked behind the broad shoulders of a nearby male guest, praying silently: _don't let him see me; in fact, get him out of here. Give him food poisoning, give him cancer, I don't care, just_ ** _don't let him stay_**.

After a few seconds, she got the courage to peek around her body shield. In the midst of the crowd, she could swear he was moving toward her. She pulled back. Had to think of an escape plan, but no path was open to remove her without being left in the open. So she did the cowardly thing: she stood as still as possible, hoping for miraculous intervention. Perhaps if she didn't move, he would lose track of her… Get distracted…

Something warm wrapped around her wrist. It was fleshy and furry, not like a hand, and it startled her so badly that she let out a scream, effectively blowing her cover. She pulled on her arm to break free, but didn't manage it, so she fumbled in her heels and turned to look at what had her, and saw, standing a little behind her, a cooing, purring Sylveon extending its ribbons for her.

Of course she knew what it was, and knew that this species liked to hold hands and soothe frayed nerves, but she had never met this one before.

"What are you doing?" she snapped at it, still unsuccessfully tugging to get her wrist free.

The Sylveon squeaked joyfully in reply, bounding up and down, as if it had decided she was its new best friend. Her Stufful in her hands began to squirm and growl, not happy at all with this intrusion.

"Let go of me, you little rat!"

"Razz!" A booming male voice called out over the crowd; through the milieu of guests, the Sylveon's apparent owner began to nudge his way over.

Fate of fates―it was him. The blonde new visitor, the taller one of the pair, looking flustered and embarrassed.

"Razz, what are you―oh, geez." He ran up to her and began untangling the ribbons from her wrist, profusely scolding his pokemon as he did: "We've talked about this! You can't run off and grabbing onto people―"

So Lucienne and the stranger proceeded to fumble together, both grabbing at the ribbons to undo them, and in the process, touching hands and apologizing to each other for it. Eventually, she was successfully extracted, and he took up his Sylveon under his arm while it persisted in chirping and waving its ribbons about.

Lucienne was then able to get a proper look at him, one with more detail than the impression she received from far away. He had a gentle, warm face, welcome and expressive; he had a grounded, rugged attractiveness from a broad-set jaw and scruffy chin. One could get used to a face like that. After wrestling his pokemon, his carefully combed-back blonde hair had puffed up, fanning out at the back of his head. To add to the sense that he didn't fully belong in a ritzy banquet like this, he wore less-than-high-class clothing―a simple suede jacket over a rose-colored turtleneck.

He was looking at her, his dark green eyes hovering over her face, searching for offense. He slicked his hair back with his hand and spoke, and she heard the slightest inflection of country twang in his voice. "Sorry if Razz startled you, Miss."

"'Razz'?"

"Yeah." He laughed nervously and rubbed the Sylveon's head. "He's a little, uh, overly-friendly. We've been working on it."

Lucienne then noticed something she hadn't before. She tilted her head at the creature. "He looks… a little different."

"Oh, good eye!" The stranger removed his hand to show off that, indeed, the Sylveon's fur was not a bright pink, as it was in most, but a shade of sky-blue, and its eyes a raspberry pink. "Yup, he's a variant all right."

"You're a breeder?" she asked, before really thinking about it―'variant' was a rather 'breeder' thing to say.

"What? Ah, no… My folks are, though. I guess it creeps into my vocabulary, doesn't it?" He rubbed his head. "Geez! Where's my head? Now that I've violated your space and all―my name's Mohn. And you are…?"

Lucienne paused, considered her options, then extended her delicate hand to him, smoothly declaring, "You may call me Lusamine."

* * *

Lusamine―as she was called by all her friends outside of immediate family―was used to hearing gasps after introducing herself by her stage name. She was used to whoever she spoke with stopping, realizing with whom they were speaking, and either grovelling or declaring their admiration.

But Mohn showed no sign of recognition. In fact, he took hold of her proffered hand and ended up shaking it. "Well, much obliged, Miss Lusamine. And who's this friend of yours?"

It took a moment to recover from the shock and realize he meant her pokemon. "Oh… This? My Stufful…"

"Aw, hey there, little guy." Mohn reached over and, before she could get a warning out, tried to pet it. His overeagerness earned him a snarl and whack on the hand with a free paw.

She tried not to laugh at his dejected expression. "She doesn't like being touched by strangers."

He finished rubbing his assaulted hand and spoke directly to the Stufful. "Sorry, little… Er, miss. I should have asked first." He joked to his Sylveon, "Guess I better practice what I preach, huh?"

(Sylveon mewled a titter at him).

"Isn't that an Alolan species? Are you from there?"

"Oh, not at all. A…" She quickly thought of a term. " _Friend_ traveled there for work. He brought it back for me."

"Well, tell him I'm mighty jealous! I've heard there's amazing wildlife out there."

Lusamine felt so at ease talking just then, that she completely forgot about Brooks―and she was starting to think that, perhaps, she wouldn't have to worry about it for a while.

But the conversation was cut off by Mohn's companion, who came up behind him and touched him on the arm.

"Mohn," the thin companion said. His voice was as frail as he looked. "Monsieur LeBlanc is asking for you."

"Oh! That's my cue." Mohn jumped and turned around, almost leaving her without saying goodbye. Thankfully, he remembered his manners and looked at her, smiling. "Wish me luck."

"Luck…?"

He didn't explain, but winked at her and hurried away. The two friends chatted on some matter, beyond her range of hearing.

Now that she was left alone again, she had to make a decision. Mr. Brooks in one corner of the room, and the two intriguing strangers disappearing down the other. To help her in this quest, she held up her Stufful to her face. "All right―so, either I go face my problem head on like a proper lady, or I go stick my nose in other people's business."

Her Stufful sagged its head, giving a resigned whine, like it knew regardless of how it tried to answer, she would hear only what she wanted to.

"Hmm. You're right. It's not even a contest." Lusamine rested her Stufful against her shoulder and promptly slipped her way through the crowd, ignoring the occasional call after her, and followed the two companions out into an adjoining hallway.

* * *

The halls of the LeBlanc manor were ideal for sneaking, creeping, and spying. Sometimes, Lusamine suspected it was built that way on purpose, for the sake of household intrigue. Dips and hollow spaces in the walls could be used to duck behind, and a line of pillars made it easy to follow someone and regularly hide.

So Lusamine expertly tracked them, while remaining unseen herself. They didn't go very far, passing only a few family portraits and proudly-displayed artifacts her father had collected from far-off lands, before they reached Alban at the farthest door connecting to the dining hall.

He greeted them politely, apologizing for bringing them this direction, for he had briefly gone to retrieve something from his office.

Lusamine settled behind the nearest possible pillar and listened intently.

"You remember my colleague, Faba," she heard Mohn saying.

"Ah, yes, of course." (Alban sounded… slightly surprised. As if the man's presence was an unexpected element. )

The men shook hands.

"I don't mean to keep you from everyone else," Alban told them, "but this should be quick and you're my last… Undecided factor, so to speak. So, Professor Mohn, have you thought about my offer?"

"Well…"

At this point, Lusamine couldn't contain her curiosity; very carefully, she brought her face around the pillar to look. The momentary silence she heard was due to Mohn looking to his friend, Faba, and scratching his chin with thought.

"I don't think we can expect a better one," Mohn finally said. "Our project is a bit of a niche, and this opportunity… It's sort of a dream come true!"

Faba spoke up to mitigate Mohn's rampant enthusiasm. "We would like more details, though…"

"Right, details!"

"...Oh." Alban looked between them both thoughtfully. A troubled expression crept into the contours of his face. "Oh, I see."

Though Mohn didn't know the cause of his reaction, he hurried to add, "Not to say we aren't ready to make a decision! We know you're on a tight schedule―"

"Mr. Faba, right?" Alban suddenly turned to the smaller man and smiled. "I'm very sorry to ask this, but… Would you mind telling my butler to go ahead with the seating arrangements? I don't want to disrupt the schedule too badly on account of my own tardiness."

The request confused them both. Faba started to shake his head. "I don't know…"

Alban cut him off by placing a hand on his shoulder. "He's the tall chap at the front of the hall. Black hair, black moustache. Purple suit. You really can't miss him."

"But…"

"We'll meet you inside momentarily."

Looking incredibly put-upon, but too cowardly to further complain, Faba put his hand in his brown coat pocket and mumbled his assent. He stepped out through the near door, leaving Mohn and Alban alone.

Mohn said, "Uh, shouldn't we wait for him?"

"Professor Mohn, I have an apology to make." Alban sighed, positioned his cane beneath his weight to stabilize himself, and gazed remorsefully at the young man. "I see now… That I've made a dire miscommunication. When we first spoke about a future position at the Aether Foundation, I hadn't exactly…" He planted a hand at his suit lapel to straighten it. "Oh… How shall I put this… _Factored in_ your friend."

Though Lusamine could not see Mohn's face, she saw his body stiffen.

"I spoke carelessly, I admit it. The fact is, I'm interested in your project, and I'm interested in your contribution to the Foundation, but my offer was meant for you, as an individual. Not for the pair of you."

"But―" Mohn sputtered and turned about, casting an agonized glance out the door where Faba had gone. He hastily formulated his counterargument, speaking with clear conviction. "No, no, sir with all due respect―that doesn't make a lick of sense to me; this is _our_ project, we developed this _together_!"

"Professor Mohn…" With his trademark, stoic gentleness, Alban reached out to touch his arm. "I realize…"

Desperation made the man's voice waver. "Please. I don't work without him."

"This isn't an issue of preference. I have my science team picked already; I only have the budget to hire on one more full-time member."

"Then don't pay me."

Alban heard the request, put a hand to his forehead, and sighed.

"Or―cut my pay. Cut our project's overhead. Whatever you need to do!"

After a moment of bowing his head, the LeBlanc patriarch lifted his eyes and intoned, "Perhaps it's hard for you to imagine, but I was young once, too. I remember the fierce camaraderie, as well as the passion, and idealism. I'd be glad if you brought those traits with you, when you join the Aether Foundation. However, while your loyalty is laudable, not all success can be shared."

They could hear the shuffle of feet in the dining hall; Alban straightened his shoulders.

"Well, dinner's starting. You'll consider what I've said, won't you?"

Mohn went silent for a painful second, then reluctantly returned, "Yes, sir."

Sensing the younger man's turmoil and wanting to diffuse it, Alban smiled congenially. "Good boy. We'll talk soon."

When the door opened and shut, Lusamine nearly assumed they had both gone out, but the sound of readjusting feet on the tile floor alerted her that someone still remained. Mohn stood there, still and quiet, like he had been cast out into empty wilderness. And the longer he stood there, the more tense Lusamine became, because without conversation going on, she couldn't afford to make the tiniest of sounds lest she be discovered.

A minute passed. She felt her breath ache for being held. Her heart pounded so fiercely, that she feared he could hear it from across the room. Out of the corner of her eye, a small, cream-colored shape crept from below, and while narrowly avoiding crying out in surprise, she snapped her head at it. The blue Sylveon had wandered over and locked eyes with her behind the pillar.

She made a horrible face at him and gestured silently for him to shoo.

Thankfully, Mohn spoke up. "Razz. C'mon, now."

The Sylveon promptly turned around, plodding over to his owner.

She listened, and in the middle of the empty hallway, Mohn breathed out a long whiff of air and said with miserable dejection, "That tears it, huh… Oh well… We'll just… Have to keep looking, I guess…"

And with that, he went through the door as well.

Lusamine did not understand his expressed pain.

She had never seen it before. It was a foreign language, this willingness to throw something away for the sake of sentiment. Her father, and indeed all the men and women who ever did business around her, had taught her that wisdom meant cutting away those who held you down or compromised your success. Surely, this Mohn must have befriended Faba for some unknown but lucrative advantage, and this, she could comprehend. But when the advantage ran out? When a friend's presence runs afoul of your desires? That's the textbook definition of "dead weight," and no one should have to blink before throwing such vermin off.

 _What a fool_ , she thought. Only a fool would think to turn down an opportunity, delivered on a silver platter, for the benefit of someone else.

(Yet… Because it was strange to her… It intrigued her, as much as it annoyed her. It made her question whether another playbook existed, of which she could acquire strategies, strategies that could allow her to get more of what she wanted).

* * *

Lusamine had distracted herself so badly that she didn't hear footsteps coming up behind her.

" _Boo_!" Hands shot out, snagging her by the waist.

She jumped, screamed, and gasped horribly, all in time to spin around and find the regrettable Mr. Brooks grinning down at her. She fumed and started beating his chest as he invasively enfolded himself around her and laughed at her anger. "Ugh! You―! You are so―so childish!"

"Serves you right," Brooks said, teasing. With arms around her, preventing her escape, he began to press her up against the surface of the column. "You've been ducking me all night."

Of all Mr. Brooks' faults, and he had an ample number of them, his inability to get the hint ranked, to her mind, as his worst. He was a slightly older man, in his thirties, and as a film director, he ought to have plenty of experiencing reading people's body language. But Lusamine had since come to the conclusion that past relationships had enabled his worst behaviors. She ought to know. Plenty of her own vices were the final product of enabling, leech-like friends.

Lusamine looked up at his dull, smarmy face, and frowned. She worked her arms between them, trying to force him away. "Get _off_."

He snickered and shoved his face into hers, hovering his lips close. "I'm _trying_ ," he whispered.

She decided enough was enough. She groaned at him and kicked him in the shin with the sharp tip of her shoe, until he skittered backwards. The one good thing about Mr. Brooks was she could treat him like a dog―if he got too frisky, a stern slap on the muzzle was usually all it took to make him cower.

"Augh!" He retreated and cursed, but didn't fully back off. He kept his hands on both sides of her, pinning them firmly on the column. Finally, he laughed the pain off. "Geez! You Kalos chicks really are uptight."

"What do you _want_?" she demanded. It annoyed her that she remained trapped, but she decided that negotiation might free her.

"I just wanna talk. You haven't been returning my calls, babe."

"Hmm." She grimaced and put a hand to her hip. "I think if we put our heads together and think very hard, we can come up with a reason why that is."

"Oh, come on." Next came the begging. He leaned as close as he could dare and pleaded, "You were just upset; I know you didn't mean it."

She tossed her blonde hair, letting her bangs settle over her cruel green eyes. "I _did_ mean it, Matthew."

Right on cue, he became spitting angry. While his looks were plain under normal circumstances, they became disfigured and ugly in his rage, like a greased pig. "After everything I've done for you? Just like that? Without my say? You're kidding, right?" He glanced down at the Stufful squirming in her arms. "Besides, we both know you still like me."

"You're delusional."

"Why else do you keep using her? Do you think about me every time you bring her out?"

She turned the Stufful away from him, as if to protect its innocence. "... _And_ you're disgusting."

For a long moment, he seethed silently, examining her, trying to drum up the most hateful thing he could think to say. Thankfully, he was not a sharp fellow, so he eventually growled, "You're a piece of work. All that time and money and favors I did you―and what, you're done with me?"

" _You_ got to walk around for four months with me dangling from your arm," she countered. "Be glad you got even that."

But her disingenuous appeal to his sense of gratitude fell flat. Suddenly, Brooks lashed out, grabbing on her upper arm and tightening his fingers around her flesh. He frothed. "You know," he said, squeezing her arm painfully, "you should really think about how treat people. You treat people like garbage―and someday, they're gonna treat you like garbage right back."

Lusamine tugged, could not pull her arm out from his grip, and then tried to simply launch herself aside in a forceful getaway.

In sheer reaction, he pulled her back, yanking her arm and landing her hard against the pillar.

As her back struck the stone, she felt breath fly out of her.

...This.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She wasn't supposed to lose control of the situation like this.

Her other arm, on instinct, lifted with the full intent to scratch and pluck his eyes out―to teach him what he earned by making her feel, in the moment, weak, cornered, and powerless.

But her Stufful, reacting to its owner's pained sounds and startled by the man's violation of its personal space, threw its head around, clamping its teeth down on Mr. Brook's wrist.

Brooks jolted, cried out, and knocked the small animal to the floor with a fling of his hand.

"Augh―god!"

He clutched his wrist―the skin had only barely been broken, but he milked the injury for all it was worth by complaining and writhing. Impulsively, he swung his foot at the Stufful once it landed, but his kick mostly missed, scuffing its tail fur and nothing else.

Lusamine protested. "Stop! What's the matter with you?"

...And the creature scurried away, only to scamper over to a pair of small feet in white leather shoes.

Nikolai, standing a few feet away after coming through the door unnoticed during their scuffle, took his eyes briefly off the couple to examine the Stufful cowering at his legs; without hesitation, he bent down, reached out with his hands, and allowed it to clamber into his arms. Its fur still stood on end, so he gave it a few soothing strokes on the head while its puffiness receded. As he did this, his Magnemite hovered over them, spinning and making curious, clicking noises.

Nikolai finally looked the stunned Mr. Brooks in the eyes and, more out of spite than actual moral indignation, scolded, "Do you feel brave, bullying something smaller than yourself?"

Brooks flared, still applying pressure to his wound. "Buzz off, kid. We're having an adult conversation here."

"Oh," Nikolai said, putting on a slimy grin, "I can certainly see _that_."

"Niko," Lusamine hissed, "get lost."

But the small teenage boy taunted, " _Make me_."

She felt her stomach tense, and she ground her teeth. She did _not_ need to be rescued by her snot-nosed brother.

Naturally, though, the boy was only happy to throw a wrench in her plans; he examined Mr. Brooks, and proclaimed, "You're that movie director out of Unova."

"Huh?"

"I saw your last movie―'Attack on Metropolis 2.'"

Brooks looked momentarily pleased. He straightened and folded his arms, a smirk lifting the end of his mouth. "Yeah?"

Nikolai, spotting his overconfidence, gave a smirk of his own. "Well, part of it, anyway. I got bored after fifteen minutes and shut it off. Unovians really produce horrible cinema. The only saving grace was I downloaded it, so at least I didn't waste my money."

Brooks' face changed, but his tantrum was over, so rather than go on the offensive again, he grumbled and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. "...Yeah, real funny." He shot Lusamine a glare when she didn't contain a small titter. "You should watch your mouth around your elders, pipsqueak. Not all grown-ups are as nice as me; you're liable to get smacked."

Nikolai looked neither bothered nor intimidated. He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged dramatically. "Whatever. If you two are done sneaking around and engaging in 'adult' behavior, Father would like you to come inside."

Brooks frowned, but ultimately decided on retreat. He went for the door, reaching for and tousling Nikolai's hair rather roughly on his out, over the young boy's obstinate objection.

After Nikloai finished straightening and combing his hair back into shape with his fingers, he huffed at his sister accusingly. "He's a buffoon. Are you dumping him yet?"

Lusamine grunted and nabbed her Stufful back into her arms. "None of your business, twerp."

"Why are all the men you date boring and stupid?"

"Because _all men_ are boring and stupid," she countered hotly.

"Hmph! The hasty generalization fallacy, along with incomplete evidence." With nauseating pompousness, he put his hands on his hips and lectured, "What lazy thinking!"

All the humiliation she felt fluttered in her chest; she burst out even more ferociously, "Why do you talk like that all the time! Why do upi have to be such a freak!" She saw his confident expression wilt a little. Weakness. She sneered at him. "Why did Mama have to die _after_ you were born? I could have been only child, and instead, I got stuck with you!"

She didn't-exactly-feel proud of the statement. But a catharsis followed her saying it, especially when Nikolai tried, and failed, to keep his facade of unflappable maturity. For all his vocabulary and mechanical know-how, he was still a young, vulnerable teenager, and once in awhile, she needed to drive that point home with a sharp object. His lip quivered, and he covered his hurt with a shouting retort of his own. "No one here misses you, you know! Everyone's glad you're gone! Because you're _awful_!"

She snorted in amusement. He was booksmart, but his biting wit was still so… juvenile. "Ooh," she crooned, feigning a crushing heartache. "You got me right here."

Nikolai furiously turned, threw himself through the door, and slammed it shut behind him.

"God, what a baby," she said aloud. That comment alone justified her behavior to herself.

But now… Now she was alone, with no one left to project her sins, or serve as a scapegoat for her problems. Overwhelming shame, and guilt, and self-hatred began to creep through the shadows, pursuing her as quiet predators, threatening to catch her in mid-step. She dodged them the only way she knew how: she stepped out into the bright glow of public attention, flipping her hair, and smiling at anyone nearby willing to fawn after her.

* * *

The one thing she thought would redeem the evening was finding that blonde man, Mohn, again. Surely he and his friend had seated themselves somewhere. She had enough of the stuffy, old troubles; she wanted something new to sink her teeth into.

However, once she reached her table and began to look about, she could not find them anywhere.

Well, _this_ won't do at all.

She glided her way over to her father, interrupting an intense exchange about stock options, she supposed.

"Daddy."

"Hmm?" He looked up at her in surprise, eventually pushing out his chair to face her. "What is it, dear?"

"There was a man here―we started to talk, but then he had to talk to you. His name was Mohn."

Alban studied her expression with clear suspicion. "I see. And what do you need?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"He left already, darling." He scratched his chin with thought. "I think his friend wasn't feeling well so they both called it a night. Is that all?"

In her head, she burned furiously. How rude! To leave without even attempting to say goodbye to her! "Well, how am I supposed to find him now!"

"Lucie…" He spotted the predatory glint in her eye, sighed, and brought his voice down so others couldn't hear. " _Please_ don't."

"What!"

"Professor Mohn is a nice, responsible, wholesome young man, and I don't want you mixing him up in your personal affairs."

"Uh! You want your daughter to stick to dirtbags, is that it? What kind of father are you?"

"I know my daughter," he said crossly. "And I know the trouble you bring. Stay away from him."

Her father should have known better.

Nothing― _nothing_ ―motivated Lusamine more than being forbidden something.

* * *

A few nights after the charity banquet, Lusamine asked to be dropped off at a nondescript street near the university. Her entourage of friends riding with her clearly disliked her decision to go out _here,_ and go out _alone_ , but they knew better than to question her.

She crawled out of the limousine, dismissed the car with her entourage inside, and faced the street.

In all her years, she had never visited an establishment of this sort. The bars and clubs she frequented all possessed the flair and class that she deserved: glitz, high-shelf liquor, dress-codes, the smell of money. She never had to worry about bouncers, on account of who she was―she was _always_ let through―but their presence symbolized the exclusivity of her nightlife excursions.

This place, on the other hand…

From what she gathered, this pub-style bar, in particular, served mostly university students, peaking its service in the evenings after classes as well as on weekends and holidays. The place occupied a small corner of the street block, and its lights glowed brightly through broad glass panels painted with the bar's name― _La Licorne_. She could clearly see people gathered at tables, dressed in plainclothes and indulging in wine, beer, and cocktails.

She glanced down at herself. She may have overdressed. _No matter_. She drew her dark cape tighter over her dress, sucked in a breath, and marched inside.

* * *

The bar's interior contained a modest array of tables and booths beside the front bar, and already, she could feel some heads turning. Without turning her own head too obviously, she surveyed the customers, and within a few steps toward the front, she spotted her mark.

Lusamine asked the bartender if she could use their phone, and the man pointed her for the booth at the back. This gave her an excuse to walk to her vantage point.

Just as the little bird had told her, Professor Mohn, along with his friend Faba, sat across from one another in a booth against the wall, perhaps celebrating the end of another work week, or drowning their sorrows. She knew she couldn't simply stride up to them and ask; she was too subtle for that.

She waited.

For a while, she came to worry that she would _never_ see an opening, but at last, Mohn got up to cross over to the front.

Lusamine hung up the phone―exited the booth in a hurry―and as she strode, she looked down and pretended to be busy digging through her purse.

 _Thump_.

"Oh…!"

The collision was light, enough to bump shoulders and startle him to attention, but not knock anything out of hand; she glanced up, and they met eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, awaiting his recognition. "I should watch where I'm going."

... _Did_ he recognize her? He apologized too with a nervous laugh, then gawked at her in astonishment.

She turned heel to leave, and just as she suspected, he spoke up.

"Hey, wait. Don't we―?"

When she faced him again, his face lit up.

"Hey! I do know you!" Mohn pointed to his chest cheerily. "We ran into each other at the fundraiser the other night. Remember?"

She broke into a smile. "Oh! Of course. What a surprise!"

"Geez! That's crazy. What are you doing here?"

"I just came in to use the phone," she said, putting a hand to her lips. "How funny."

In his excitement, Mohn chattered at her in a mix of interjections and expressions of disbelief, before calling over to his friend. He reached out, putting a hand delicately at her elbow, and led her over to the table, where quick re-introductions were made and Lusamine deduced that Faba, of the two of them, was the most cautious. The thin, sallow-faced man remained seated, and traced her with cold suspicion, as if he had already figured out her ruse.

"...And here she is! Isn't that a hoot?"

Faba, from beneath his thick-rimmed glasses, shifted his eyes. "...Yes… What a... _Coincidence_ …"

Mohn completely missed his friend's sarcasm and looked at her with all the enthusiasm of a wagging puppy. "Are you busy?"

(From behind him, she could see Faba's expression wrinkle.)

"Actually, no," she answered.

"Then join us!"

Faba lifted his hand to massage his temple tiredly, and his shoulders fell with a silent sigh.

* * *

Mohn offered her the seat across from Faba, then fitted himself next to his friend. She analyzed this choice: perhaps he didn't want to seem too forward, or perhaps he was a tad oblivious, or… On the other hand, it's possible she failed to identify something about these two, that they preferred each other's company to hers.

"So, do you want anything?" Mohn took his glass half-full of beer and scooted it back to himself. "I hear they have good burgers, if that's your thing."

She heard the suggestion and noted they had an order of fries, partially-eaten and getting colder by the minute in a basket in front of them. "You don't like the food here?"

"We're vegetarian," Faba snipped.

"Oh, I _see_ ," she said. She placed her purse on the opposite side of her. "My. I had thought your kind had gone extinct in Kalos."

Mohn laughed―and Faba just rolled his eyes.

"Yup, there sure aren't a lot of us," Mohn admitted. "But it's getting easier. I think it's the diet of the future, really."

 _A futurist and a utopian_. No wonder Father was so interested in bringing him onboard for his Aether project. "You think so? How fascinating. I follow a fairly restrictive diet myself―so I won't be needing anything just now, to answer your initial question."

As she spoke, she saw Mohn nudge the basket in Faba's direction. She also noticed that Faba's glass was filled with water, not beer, and that overall, his appearance did have a… vaguely limp look.

Lusamine caught eyes with him. "Are you doing all right?"

Faba looked at her strangely.

"At the banquet the other night… I was told you weren't feeling well, and that's why you left so early."

Shocked that she would even ask such an intrusive question, Faba frowned. "I'm just fine, thank you," he said, voice tight with hostility. "Anyway… It wasn't serious… Probably something I ate."

"Before the meal started?"

He paused. That the comment tripped him up betrayed his lie, but he amended, "Yes… Earlier in the day…"

Mohn leaped into the fray. "Don't eat at that bistro on Estival Avenue. Those crepes just about killed us."

(Mohn was covering for him. Lusamine kept that in mind. It struck her as… interesting.)

"Well, anyway! This gives us a chance to actually talk, doesn't it!" Mohn put his hands flat on the table. "Why, I don't think I even found out what you do for a living. We got as far as names, as I remember."

"You…" Faba turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "You don't… know who she is?"

Lusamine watched in amusement as Mohn squirmed and looked desperately between them. "Wait… Should I?"

Faba tried again, "You _really_ don't recognize her?"

"Huh? Well―" Mohn scratched his chin, now caught in the middle of a puzzle he felt he ought to know.

"Lusamine," Faba began, sighing. "Baroness de LeBlanc, L'étoile de Lumiose..."

A brief flash of possible understanding crossed Mohn's face, but didn't resolve.

"...Alban LeBlanc's daughter?"

"Oh! Really!"

Faba looked a bit exasperated by his ignorance. "Not to mention her face is practically smeared on every magazine cover and street corner―"

She read Faba's familiarity and disdain, and decided to take a stab at it. She flashed him a coy smile while batting her eyelashes, tucking her chin against her bare shoulder suggestively. "Are you a fan of my work, Mr. Faba?"

He stopped. _Glared_.

Mohn, however, continued to babble happily. "Well, now I'm curious! What sort of work is it?"

"Fashion modeling," she answered. "I contract out for advertising on occasion… Hence the billboards."

"Wow."

She awaited the usual comment―she only ever heard a variation on one in particular, from men who had to find out about her job. _No wonder_ , they'd say. _I'm not surprised. A beautiful woman like yourself…_

Mohn sank his chin into his propped hand, thinking very hard. "That's gotta be a challenging job," he finally said.

She blinked at him, momentarily baffled. "Oh? What… makes you say that?"

"Oh! I don't mean to…" He nervously chuckled, obviously worried he'd said something foolish. "It just seems to me, it's gotta be stressful. Being in the limelight all the time. You must be very good at dealing with difficult people, huh?"

Faba elbowed him, evidently not impressed with this line of babbling.

But Lusamine absorbed it a minute, pondering what exactly he saw in her to trigger this observation. She broke the tension with a sweet smile. "I've been very fortunate." She lowered her eyelashes. "But my work is so dull to talk about. Why don't you tell me a bit about _your_ work? If Father's interested in you, it must be something indeed."

* * *

After a few minutes of listening to Mohn gush, she came to the conclusion she had uncorked something recklessly; barely before finishing her question, he launched into an autobiography and a primer on interdimensional physics.

Of what he told her, she latched onto key details: they were recent graduates with their respective doctorates, as well as roommates; they had worked jointly on a project meant to someday test the boundaries of reality; and they were currently searching for funding.

Much of his ramblings about the physics aspect, however, went sailing over her head. Still, he persisted in explaining it, seeming to find eminent satisfaction whenever she showed the slightest bit of understanding.

Faba, uninterested in putting his life's work into layman's terms, spent those minutes glowering with increasing irritation at her. She was used to receiving flack, when giving attention to one man and neglecting the other, but this look of his communicated something… different. She put up with this for a while, but as she got bored with it, she returned the favor: under the table, she slipped one of her feet out of her shoe, brought her foot over to one of Faba's, and slid it up his pant leg until her toes touched his ankle. All this while maintaining a polite, attentive expression for Mohn.

Faba jumped and jerked horribly, and Mohn looked over in surprise.

"Uh. Are you okay?"

"F-fine!" Mortified and flustered, Faba yanked his leg backward under the table, scuttled further down the booth seat, and diverted his eyes from her. "I'm― I'm fine. Just a―muscle..."

(He stopped looking at her after that.)

Mohn picked up where he left off. "But imagine! Another world! Why, it could have its own laws of physics―its own colors, its own elements, its own life forms!"  
"This is all―" Faba glared at him crossly. " _Wild_ speculation, of course. We have the mathematical theory hashed out, but none of the equipment to practically test any of it."

"Yeah, turns out, it takes a lot of grant money to poke holes in the fabric of the universe," Mohn said. "But it's free to dream, isn't it!"

"Dream as you like, but finding life is astronomically unlikely…"

"Aw, Faba, my man!" Mohn swung his arm around Faba's shoulder, shaking him roughly. "Always keeping me at ground level."

Lusamine finally decided she needed to up the ante. She liked the direction this was going, but the obstacle had become crystal clear to her. She asked for a drink. Naturally, it was Mohn, in his chivalry, who volunteered to fetch it for her, and so just as she wished, she got a few, slim moments with Faba alone.

Lusamine folded her hands atop the table and gave him a magnanimous, warm, silent gaze. It took only a few seconds for him to huff and glare accusingly back. "Don't give me that look," she teased. She held back a giggle. "You started it."

The scientist grimaced and pushed the frames of his glasses up the long bridge of his nose. His lips moved, as if he meant to mutter something, but it seemed he hadn't gathered the courage yet; his fingers twitched and sweat beaded his wide, pallid brow. It wasn't but a few years ago that she used to eat nerds like him for lunch; everything about him threatened to bring out old, mean-girl instincts in her: His lack of stature. His pitiful lack of confidence. His nerves.

Now that he didn't speak, she focused on him, steel-eyed. "...Listen." Her tone crept low and lilted, like the steps of a predator. "...I don't mean to be rude… What was your name? Faba?" She sidled over in her seat so that she sat directly across from him, and could lean over the table to better whisper to him. "But, dear… You don't seem to be having a very good time. Don't you think you'd rather go on home?"

Faba still said nothing.

"I promise I'll take care of things here."

Extremely under his breath, so that she could barely hear it, he sniffed and grumbled, "Yes, I'm sure you would."

She sat up in a bit of shock. Underneath this… quiet, nervous, antisocial, fidgety geek, there was just a little bit of _sass_. Lusamine found this discovery delectable and worthy of further investigation. (And here she thought he'd the boring one!) She tossed her head, feigning hurt for the time being. "Oh, whatever do you mean! You silly little man; you don't drink, you don't like the food, and you're clearly not fond of my company. What's even the point of sticking around? Why don't you take the night off, hmm?"

Suddenly, he clapped his hands down onto the table. "I am _not..._!" He nearly shouted, but as his face turned a shade of red, he brought his voice down to a raspy, harsh whisper, "leaving him here to be picked off by some spoiled _hussy_!"

If not for her warrior-like composure in that moment, she would have belly-laughed. Instead, she buckled over, snorting and suppressing her hysteria by clapping her hands over her mouth. Faba was not at _all_ pleased with this reaction, which made it even harder to stop, because every time she saw how cross he was, she felt ready to burst out laughing again. "I'm so sorry," she wheezed eventually, breathing out in short puffs to regain control of herself. "How unladylike of me!" She fanned herself with her hands, her face almost in tears. "Oh, goodness!"

Unfortunately for Faba, by then, Mohn returned, martini in hand, and the evening had to continue as he grit his teeth and bore it.

* * *

At the end of the night, they gathered on the sidewalk outside, bantering their last few lines. Lusamine made her final move by requesting someone walk her home, and Faba, to the shock of both of them, leaped to volunteer before Mohn could offer to fill the gesture.

"Well, we could _both_ ―"

"That won't be necessary," Faba assured him with uncharacteristic confidence. "I'll catch a cab back home. I'll see you then."

On the walk, Lusamine started out winding her arm around his, just for show, but once they disappeared from Mohn's sight, she dropped her arm and admired the evening streets. The streetlights had turned on, basking the walk in a milky glow. Her mood, despite the unexpected elements of this night, lifted.

Then her attendant cleared his throat and started talking.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," Faba said, breaking the serenity, "but I know… Your reputation precedes you, and…"

They stopped at a corner, and she sniffed. "Do you believe everything you read in the paper?"

"I won't let you hurt him."

"What?" She laughed. "Oh, _down_ , boy. Who said anything about hurting anybody? I want to get to know him better; is that a crime?"

"You…" Faba shook his head. "I know your type… If you want a toy to play with… Go elsewhere."

She expected to feel irritated by his broken-record attempts at driving her away. She expected to find him pathetic. But all at once, as she listened, and as she saw his face drenched with the strain of his conviction, another strange, new feeling grew in her. What was it about this Mohn, that he inspired everyone around him to growl like guard dogs when she got close? His friend expressed his loyalty not only with passion, but without being asked, without even being _known_. Lusamine had many friends over the years, but she couldn't name one who would have stuck up for her when she wasn't looking. Backstabbing… she had always assumed it was the natural course of things.

Faba, the longer she stared at him, became more flustered. "Wh-what… What are you looking at?"

"Does he know?"

"Does he know _what_?"

She studied him and then folded her arms. "The way you look at him―the way you talk about him, even… you might as well scream it out."

"I―!" Faba growled and stuffed his hands in his pockets, air flaring his nostrils. "I don't know what you're…"

"I'm in the fashion industry, dear. I know your type, too."

For a few seconds, he must have pondered lying, but he sighed and relented, "No. He doesn't know. Why, do you intend to extort me for it?"

"You silly thing! You can't extort someone with hearsay." At that, she started walking again, flying past the street and toward a fountain. She sat down on its edge, only furthering his impression that she didn't actually intend to go home. "Now see here," she said, crossing her legs, "some day he's going to find a woman, isn't he? You can't chase us all off. Wouldn't you at least like that woman to be on your side?"

At first, Faba stood a ways off, but her preamble to her proposition made him approach and scoff. "'On my side'... I don't know what you're…"

"My father wants to hire Mohn for his new Aether project. It's a dream offer. Everything he could ever want. The trouble of it is, my father _doesn't_ want to hire you."

"N-no," Faba started to retort, looking greatly confused, "that isn't… how it is, where did you hear…?"

"What did you do, to make my father hate you so much?" While Faba stammered obstinately, she shrugged and smoothed her hand down her flow of blonde hair. "You're right. It's probably not anything you _did_. He's just very conservative… Likes his men to be men, women to be women… He could probably _smell_ the nancy on you."

"You―!" He turned around, threatening to leave. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Don't get huffy! I'm offering to help. I know my father. I know his hiring methods. I could ensure you two get to work together for the foreseeable future."

Faba froze. He turned back, eyed her with extreme suspicion, like he _knew_ this was some sort of trap, but couldn't resist it. His hands came out of his pockets, demonstrating his internal wrestling by pressing them to his neck. He had a pained expression when he asked, "What do you care?"

"I can't want to help someone, out of the goodness of my own heart?"

"You would do this… You don't even know us…"

She smiled broadly and unfolded her legs. "Don't you believe in fate?"

"I… I believe…" He pulled a look of disgust. "You like getting your way."

Apparently, his answer served as good enough; Lusamine sprang to her feet, her heels clicking busily on the pavement, and stopped a hair's breadth away from him. She reveled in his discomfort, then pulled a pen and small notebook from her purse. After tearing out a sheet of paper, she slapped it against his chest and began writing on it, using him as a flat surface.

"What―? Are you―?"

"I'm giving you my agent's number. When you get the job offer, give her a call, and she'll get your message straight to me."

"I―"

He didn't get to complete his thought. She placed the paper into his open hand.

"You and I… We're going to be very good friends, aren't we, Mr. Faba? Now, good night."

As she happily whirled and strode away, leaving him behind, he recovered from his shock enough to ask, "I thought I…? Was walking you home…?"

"I'm taking a taxi," she sang joyfully. "I live on the _complete_ other side of the city, dear."

He processed this, stuck the paper in his pocket, and sighed. "Of course you do…"

The night was alive with light. Every glinting window, car, and lamp warmed the world with endless promise. She felt wrapped and held, as if the very arms of the city had come down on her. She could have called a cab straight away, but something possessed her, and she ended up walking a few more blocks, just to work the burning out of her lungs.


	25. Ego Sum Nihil - MemoryDisc2: Ice

/ /MEMORY_DISC_2: ICE

/ Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, / Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where.

* * *

Lusamine jerked awake.

Her back ached, and no wonder: she had fallen asleep on the chairs in the hospital hall, with no more than a bundled-up coat to rest her head.

Speaking of: her head was pounding. The scorchingly bright fluorescent lights above her didn't help, and as she adjusted to being awake, her vision cleared and gave her more context. The hallway was quiet for now, just the occasional nurse walking by, clicking the linoleum floor with their heels. Lusamine's mouth had gone dry; her hair frayed and tangled.

As she moved around and sat up, she found her purse tucked safely under her stomach and proceeded to dig through it like a fiend. A cigarette. She needed a cigarette. She didn't have the mental capacity to do the things she knew she had to do―the tasks that drummed through her head like a march. _I have to… And then I have to… And then…_

God, she was exhausted. At least she got some morsel of sleep, even if it was the only sleep she'd experienced in the last forty-eight hours.

She found her cigarette and lit up.

Outside the window before her, snow fell over Lumiose. Though the winter solstice festival had passed, the string-lights and ribbons remained, adding little dollops of crystalline red, green, and gold on the otherwise barren landscape.

* * *

She went to the bathroom to flush her cigarette, blow her nose discretely in the stall, and try not to cry for the hundredth time. It helped to wash her face in the sink, but looking in the mirror made it worse; she looked ashen and thin, like a ghoul. Unfortunately, she had neither the time nor the tools to apply the proper cover. She brought out her brush to make her head somewhat presentable, combing out the knots and jagged shape of her hair.

The time was eight-thirty in the morning, so she decided the call would have to happen first. Nikolai could usually be caught in his dorm, if called before his late morning classes. The hospital had a row of phones hanging alongside the front desk in the waiting area, and mercifully, she found them unoccupied.

Lusamine grabbed the one furthest from the crowds of seated people, huddling in the corner with the receiver. She dialed and prayed.

She lucked out: Nikolai picked up.

"This is Colress."

She cringed. "I am _not_ calling you that."

"Lulu?" He sounded vaguely sleepy, but recognizing her voice perked him up. "Is that you?"

She contained her frustration. "Yes, it's me."

"Well! It's been a while, hasn't it. I suppose this is about Father."

Nikolai had never learned the finesse of small talk, in particular when talking to her. She was family, and so she usually let him get away with inappropriate directness.

"Are you at the hospital now? Is he there with you? Don't put him on; you know I don't want to hear him gripe."

She lost her patience much quicker than she thought she would. "Doesn't he have a right to?!"

"I don't need lecturing, Lulu―"

"It's been three months, and you haven't visited once."

"I've told you. I'm very busy."

" _Once_ , Niko."

She could hear his defensiveness. "It's not as if I'd be any help. Just keep me updated on his condition, and if it takes a turn for the worse…"

"He's in hospice care."

There was silence on the other end.

"They moved him there last night. The treatments…" She shuddered and pressed her hand the wall to keep herself upright. "It's the end of the road, all right? They're giving him painkillers and that's about it, and I've been here every day, and he's not himself, and god, please, just come visit." By the end of her rambling, she hadn't completely melted down in front of the waiting patients and families, so she counted it as a success.

Nikolai obviously hesitated, but waffled, "I have a project going on… I probably won't be able to extract myself this week… I can't make any promises."

Hearing his distinct lack of concern caused a rise in bitterness in her. She complained, "You know he still wants you to run Aether."

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "Haven't you told him what I've said to you? What a boring, pedestrian task! I have much more interesting work on hand."

Of course. For all the effort Alban had put forth to convince Nikolai otherwise, the boy had remained obsessed with pokemon battling, and never showed an ounce of interest in preservation work. He was probably in the middle of some experiment testing fighting strength, or something similarly juvenile. She groaned. "Perhaps when you _come to visit,_ you could tell him yourself."

"Fair enough. Now, is that all?"

"Yes. That's all."

He didn't even say goodbye. The line went dead in her ear.

And here, Lusamine had _hoped_ his turning eighteen would have spontaneously grown some manners in him.

* * *

When she entered her father's room, he was sitting up in bed, propped against pillows, and looking surprisingly spry. As he did every morning, he piled letters from well-wishers and official documentation from the Aether Foundation on his lap, and with his morning coffee, started to rifle through them. In the several months since checking in, his hair had gone faint-colored and thin, and his cheekbones stuck out sharply in his face. Every gesture he took drained him, which was why he let his shaggy Furfrou roam the room to fetch things and perform other menial tasks.

The poodle pokemon stood on the floor next to Alban's bed, but had its head resting on his prostrate legs.

He looked up from his letters and saw her. "Oh, darling. Good morning." He snatched a letter reserved on his side-table. "I have good news," he said.

She highly doubted that.

"That Johto doctor I've been contacting… I received a letter from him." He waved it in his hand, jittery with excitement. "He says I might be a viable candidate for that experimental regimen he's invented…"

 _Oh, no_. Not this again.

Lusamine hated that he'd come to this. Alban―a man who up until now held science to the highest value, the best skeptic of them all―reduced to calling up snake-oil sellers, witch doctors, crystal-peddlers, and quacks, all promising him salvation. It only took facing impending death to bring out the innate human quality of superstition.

She curled her lip. "And how much is he asking for?"

"You have to spend real money to get real results," he retorted harshly. He pushed the letter back onto the table. "I suppose you'd rather I just give up and die!"

...And the other, unwanted symptom. The man she always knew to have endless patience now snapped with little provocation. She did what she had learned to do: steel herself and ignore it.

"A-anyway, it can't… It can't hurt, can it…" Dejected by her lack of faith, he patted his pokemon's white, furry head and went back to shuffling papers. After a moment of enduring silence from her, he flitted his eyes, then nervously lowered them again. "Did you talk to Nikolai?"

"I left a message," she lied as subtly as possible.

"You should try again tonight. Until I can take leave of this godforsaken prison, it would be nice to have someone―temporarily―at the Foundation, taking care of things."

There was _so much_ wrong with that statement that she nearly screamed. She dropped her purse in the chair near the bed, letting its thud speak for her mood. Alban didn't notice.

"Oh, and… Does Ms. Wicke know about the room change? She's coming by this afternoon to pick up some documents for me."

"Wicke?" Lusamine had to search her memory for a second, then remembered. The mousey, purple-haired, slightly heavy-set girl in glasses. She had seen her enter and exit his room a few times lately. "Your new baby-faced _se-cre-tary_?" (She added a sultry accent to the latter word).

Her frowned at her sternly. "Young lady, you may drop that tone immediately. I told you, she's the daughter of a friend. She's also younger than you, so get your mind out of the gutter." He puffed and shook his head at the next envelope.

"Mr. Belvedere had a mistress who was seventeen."

Alban lifted a hand, wincing. "Darling, _please_."

He started reading another letter with great focus, so she took a seat, folding her hands in her lap. Past his studious, arching posture, she could see out the window to his room, but in the morning light over the snowy clouds and flakes, the outside view burned a bright, overpowering white that hurt her eyes to watch for too long. So she watched him again. Noticed his little tics that were so familiar to her: the way he scratched his upper lip when he was thinking hard, held his coffee with both hands when he sipped at it, and scratched the underside of his Furfrou's chin without looking. Suddenly, an unwanted emotion overwhelmed her, as realized those things―meaningless, normally unnoticeable things―were, in a future not so far away, going to cease to exist. Her throat clenched. "...Daddy." (She was too old to keep saying it, but she couldn't help it.)

"Hmm?"

"Why won't you let me run Aether?"

He didn't look up. He just breathed in a long, tired breath, and exhaled again.

"All the hours I put into that place―all the work I've done for you―"

Alban shut his eyes. "Lucienne…"

"Is it because I'm a woman?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. The accusation so upset him that he set the letter aside to address her. "I just… worry, that's all."

Her undercurrent of grief boiled over into anger. "Worry about what? That they won't take me seriously?"

"That's… a _part_ of it…"

"I took two years of law school," she pointed.

"Yes, I remember―"

"And then a year in business school."

He cut in, visibly irritated. "Lucienne, it's not a contest. You don't have to perform for me." He rested his back against the headboard and folded his arms. "I've seen what you're capable of. I admit it's admirable, but… From the time you were little, whenever you received a new toy, you'd play with it for a little while, and then one day, you'd grow tired of it and throw it away. Don't you see? How you grow weary of things when they don't interest you anymore…" He sighed again and looked out the window. "If I gave you Aether, what's to stop you from getting bored of it? And then molding it into something else―making it a zoo, or a circus, or a hotel resort, or god forbid, some sort of battle stadium, or amusement park?" He shuddered, the very thought wounding him. "I named the institute and foundation 'Aether' because word means _purity_. Purity of mission, substance, and conscience..."

"If I'm a flake," she growled, "Nikolai's _ten times_ a flake, but you forgive him for that, don't you? He doesn't even care about Aether, but you'd shove it in his hands over me, just because he has _boy parts_!"

"That's enough!" Alban jerked forward, startling his Furfrou, who yipped and scuttled under the bed at his shouting. "You have lived a life of _exorbitant_ privilege, and I'm not going to apologize for depriving you of _this_ _one thing_!"

Lusamine breathed in, feeling the ache compressing her chest, feeling all of her effort crumble in her hands. _It wasn't fair_. Alban, thinking the argument over, scooted himself into halfway lying down so he could rest his eyes a moment. The thought hit her again, harder, like a slap to the face. _It wasn't_ ** _fair_**. Her vision went cloudy with tears; she chomped at the inside of her cheek. "I don't―" As if a weight crushed her, her neatly-tucked legs buckled under her chair, and her shoulders sank until her hair spilled into her lap. Her sobbing came out throatily. "I don't know what you want from me."

Alban brought his hands up to his chest, resting them there. Though his eyebrows wrinkled, he didn't open his eyes.

"I've tried everything, I've tried _everything,_ Daddy, and you act like it's not enough, like… Like I did something years ago, and you won't stop punishing me for it."

He frowned and very gingerly rolled his body onto his side to face away from her. "There's no need to get emotional," he muttered.

Snivelling and weary, she managed to pull herself upright but couldn't for the life of her think of how to respond to such a patently ridiculous statement. The only encouraging element was it sounded very much like him. That was quintessentially Father. He could be standing by an open grave while the casket was lowered into the ground, and he'd scold the weeping widow for being undignified.

The two of them sat in deathly silence, aside from her occasional sniff and his uncomfortable adjustment on the bed. His shoulders and back were sloped, thin, and dimpled with bones protruding through his shirt. Eventually, after tapping his fingers on the sheets, he tried to transition back into conversation with bland observation. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's been a few years since we've had a white winter."

She wiped her ruddied face with her palm.

"I know I―" He hesitated. His voice got so soft that it nearly washed away with the snow, and his shoulders sagged with regret. "Margot... was such a tender woman. The most nurturing creature I ever knew―and so I always thought… she would raise the children, and I'd… But If I had known I was going to have to raise you on my own… Maybe I should have remarried, I should have…" He couldn't summon the courage to face her; while still turned away, gazing emptily out into the pale morning, he confessed, "I had no business raising a daughter."

It wasn't that he was too cowardly to face her as he said it; it wasn't that he said this all far too late, after the damage had been done; it wasn't that it did her no good, hearing this; nor was it that he, as usual, excused Nikolai of his flaws, as if Alban hadn't hurt him, too. No, what enraged her this last time was the transparency of his purpose. He wanted consolation. He wanted forgiveness. The only time she ever heard him admit he had ever done anything wrong, and he said it out of fear―fear of facing the consequences of his mistakes.

Lusamine flew out of her chair, unable to contain her disgust. "I don't know why I bother coming here!"

When she left, she could hear him weakly call after her: "Lucie…"

But she kept going, and another cigarette later, she was on her way home.

* * *

It was supposed to go like any other fight. They wouldn't be on speaking terms for a few days, but by the next week, they'd be back to exchanging icy greetings, and they'd work themselves up to full conversation.

They'd make plans.

They'd negotiate some more.

The doctors said he had months left, so they had time yet, they had time.

* * *

Then the call came several days later, late at night, almost midnight. She had already crawled into bed on account of an early appointment the next morning. Her bedroom wrapped her in suffocating, endless dark, and her phone rang, and she shut her eyes and refused to get up to answer it; she knew what it was, and the fact nestled in her brain and lungs and heart, but in her paralyzing, childish terror, she thought for sure if she didn't move a muscle, if she just ignored it, the ringing would stop, and fate would stop, and the whole week would reset itself and she'd wake up in a chair outside his hospital room, and he'd be reading letters and drinking coffee―

.

.

.

"...Miss LeBlanc?"

...Had someone spoken?

Lusamine couldn't feel her legs, but they rested on firm ground, keeping her from sinking down forever. In the whirlpool of muffled sounds, impressions of shapes and colors, she at first couldn't identify the location of the voice, but with focus, details came through the murkiness of her consciousness. Countertops. Nurses and doctors. Signs pointing out different wings of the building. People bundled in coats and hats, drowsing in their seats.

The pantheon of Aether directors stood some ways off, closer to the hallway. She remembered now. They had come up to her with quaint, polite sorrow, acknowledging her briefly, but they felt no obligation to take their goodwill any further, and so like all deities in her life, they drifted and proceeded to disregard her entirely.

They wouldn't even look at her.

"Miss…"

When the voice emerged this time, she was able to find its source standing to her left. Ms. Wicke. Under the glare of her glasses, she could see the girl's puffy eyes and swollen cheeks.

"I… I'm sorry to bother you, but…" In her hand, a pile of papers balanced against her chest, and she hastily reached into it to extract a small, letter envelope. "He wanted me to give this to you. When he…" Her voice trembled. "I don't think… he expected it to be this soon, but…."

Lusamine snatched without an expression of gratitude and opened it.

* * *

 _Dearest daughter:_

 _As I reflect on my legacy, I think only of two things: the Aether Foundation and my two beloved children. I have met with Mr. Rhodes to arrange my last revision of my will, and though you will find out soon enough the content of those revisions, I wish to explain them here, so that they will not catch you unawares._

 _I am asking Professor Mohn Pavot to resign his position as Branch Chief and take my place as President of the Board. His ongoing passion for Aether's mission will no doubt lead it to a tremendous future, and I place my utmost trust in him._

 _As for my children, I see now now how I have failed you. In chasing my own dreams, I have neglected you both. As recompense for this sin, this is my last heartfelt gift to the two of you: I am removing the two of you from my will. All of my wealth will instead go to the Aether Foundation, where it will aid the conservation of wildlife and the scientific progress of man for generations to come._

 _I know, dear daughter, light of my life, that you will interpret this as a punishment. But I do this precisely because I believe in you more than you can imagine. You are a strong, brilliant, beautiful young woman, and you will no doubt go on to achieve great things on your own. Nikolai, too, I know has the zeal and intelligence to accomplish his goals without depending on an inheritance._

 _With all my love…_

* * *

Ms. Wicke gaped as she witnessed Lusamine take the letter and crumple it into a ball.

"Miss…?"

"Of course…" Lusamine stared straight ahead, face drained of all emotion. She had nothing left. Nothing to feel, nothing to depend on, nothing to look forward to. "Of course, he'd take the opportunity to crush me, one last time."

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Lusamine threw the crumpled letter at the young woman, bouncing it harmlessly off her shoulder. She couldn't help but start screaming. "What are you looking at, you fat cow! Why don't you go run copies or something useful!"  
"Yes―! I―!" The terrified girl backed away, almost immediately in flight, and stopped only to pick up the paper and miserably tell her, "I'm... sorry. I'm sorry."

Ms. Wicke hurried away. Silence again. Sweet, bountiful silence, into which Lusamine could sink, allowing her rigid body to be pulled by gravity toward the center of the earth, and be swung by its rotation. She had thought being alone would be frightening, but in those few seconds, it felt like heaven.

...What should she care?

She had what she wanted.

Her career still existed. Now, she could do whatever she wanted, without worrying about pleasing or disappointing him. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to envision the open, harrowing future, which she had until now imagined containing Aether, or at least an inheritance to build upon…

* * *

One of the directors interrupted her thoughts and said, "Professor Mohn."

Her eyes shot open, and she broiled. _Yes―show your face._ She wanted to find this man, whom Father had continued to dote upon like his own son, all while pretending she didn't exist―this love thief, this cruel traitor who was set to steal what she had worked so hard to earn.

And Mohn appeared from the sliding doors, face partially covered with a thick scarf against the bitter night weather, donning a thick coat, her favorite coat, the beige suede jacket she met in years ago, but she couldn't think that now. He puffed with strain from running inside.

"Professor Mohn," the director repeated, reaching out a hand. "We should talk―"

"Just a minute." Mohn barely looked at them but with an uninterested glance. His green eyes roamed the room a second before finding hers, and they locked on. Without another breath or word, he came for her, ran at her, really.

Her heart leaped in terror. She wasn't ready. She hadn't thought it through.

"Oh, God, Lu. I came as soon as I heard."

That face. Such a simple, seraphic, gentle face that didn't seem capable of holding malice, and which now, as he panted in front of her to catch his breath, twisted with agony, concern, and disbelief.

"He's really gone, isn't he?"

Was he crying? Why was he crying? It seemed everyone around her had tears to shed, while she had none to spare. She started to feel freakish and hollow.

"What happened? It was so fast. He went downhill so fast―"

Her brain spontaneously fired off the answer, which had been stated to her before in an equally dull way. "Heart failure. Likely from a secondary infection. There was nothing they could do."

Mohn, overwhelmed by sentiment, made the faux pas of initiating the embrace, but within the second, she forgave him. His breathing was hot on her neck, while his face, body, and hands, clutching her in a breath-stealing hold, chilled her with lingering frost and wind-swept snow. He whispered and shook. "I'm so sorry. I'm so―"

Lusamine slid her arms around him, twisting her fingers into the back of his coat. She didn't realize she was weeping until she spoke in breathy, wet sobs. "Mohn. Take me home. Please. I just want to go home."

* * *

Mohn wrongly assumed she meant her apartment, so when he summoned their taxi, he initially gave the driver said destination. She had to correct him: she wanted to go the manor.

Since Alban moved out of the manor and into the house at Aether Paradise several years ago, the mansion housed no one, other than a minimal crew of part-time staff to dust the rooms, tend the gardens, keep the place presentable, and host any events that he decided should be at the family property. When they reached the front gate, no one stood nearby to open it, so they had to press the buzzer and wait for the groundskeeper to trundle out of bed and let them in.

The manor lay entirely dark and empty at the edge of the city, looming its castle-like form on the horizon. She thought returning to it might elicit some nostalgia in herself, but it felt less like revisiting an old friend, and more like picking at a corpse; the house's belly echoed empty, its ribs blanched from the sun. The gardens, dead and draped in snow, offered no cheer to the landscape, either.

Mercifully, Mohn had restrained his usually-chatty demeanor during this trip, giving her space to think. He kept his conversation minimal and directed it at the groundskeeper, who attended them inside. That was when she learned what the house staff knew: Alban planned to auction off the house, and donate the proceeds to his foundation. Of course the move made financial sense; there was no use spending so much money upkeeping a house no one would be living in. But Lusamine still felt the personal sting of the decision. As if he did this, too, on purpose, just to take something else from her.

When she declared her desire to go out into the courtyard garden, the groundskeeper puzzled over the request. "Mistress… it's awfully cold outside, isn't it? And the garden at this time of year…"

"It'll be all right," she said. She affixed her gloves back on her hands. "Turn on the lights for us, won't you?"

Lusamine walked with Mohn out into the courtyard, taking the steps down onto the cobblestone path. The even layer of snow had hardened in the cold, giving it a satisfying crunch where they tread, and under the lamplights in the garden, the surface of the snow sparkled like diamond dust. Since he didn't know her purpose in coming out here, he allowed her to take command and lead him toward a stone bench facing a frozen pond. She decided to make this her spot, so she peeled off and dusted snow from half of the bench and took a seat. Her thick coat made sitting on the frozen bench bearable, but it was nonetheless chilly.

Mohn watched her, thinking whether he, too, ought to sit. In the end, he didn't. He folded his arms against his chest to ward off the cold, and breathed out in thick clouds of vapor.

She shivered and looked out over the yard. It hadn't changed at all from how she remembered it, though she most vividly recalled its spring and summer form, before the trees shed all their leaves and the flowers were in full bloom. The walkways wound around evergreen hedges, and stone sculptures accented the center of open areas. Above their heads, the clouds rolled away, revealing the pitch black sky dappled with faraway stars.

"It's so quiet," she said suddenly. It was true. There was no whirr of insects or birds, nor the rumble of traffic she had gotten used to in urban life.

Mohn followed her eyes over the area, thinking to himself.

The frigid air in her lungs started to feel like water; she found herself breathing harder to get enough oxygen. A memory struck her, and a bittersweet smile reached her face. "Nikolai and I used to play out here when we were still little," she explained. She looked across the icy pond, out to the snow-covered paths and black, bare trees. "That was so long ago."

"Not _that_ long ago," he teased. "You're not an old hag _yet_."

She shot him an unserious glare.

"Have you talked to him?"

Lusamine realized he meant her brother and shook her head.

"You shouldn't wait; he needs to get up here soon," Mohn rattled on. "You two have a lot to figure out…"

Lusamine's voice turned to ice. "We really don't." When Mohn looked at her in surprise, she explained, "Father cut us out of his will."

"...What?"

"All the blood, sweat, and tears he put into our restoring our family, and―" Momentarily, amusement overcame her grief. "And now he's dissolved it."

Mohn looked at her, struggling to read her feelings.

"Oh, but who can really blame him? His children turned out to be such disappointments. Nikolai never became the conservationist he tried to make of him, and I was never the son he wanted."

"Lu…"

She snapped ferociously when she heard the creep of assurance in his voice. "And don't you bother trying to defend him!"

When the conversation fell into awkward silence, she stole a moment to lift her purse onto her lap and dig through it. As she pried her cigarettes out, Mohn, hearing her bitterness, chose now to take a seat. Just as she had done, he brushed the layer of snow from the space next to her and planted himself down.

He spotted the cigarette after she fumbled tearfully with her lighter. "I thought you quit," he said, as kindly as he could.

Fire filled her lungs; the noxious fog from her mouth filtered into the icy air. She then balanced the stick between her fingers and laughed sourly. "...Couldn't stick with it. Can't stick with anything…"

"Lu," he interrupted again. "I know you loved your father."

A hateful taste entered her mouth; she twisted her fingers into the length of her coat.

"You know how I know?" He turned to look at her, trying to catch her eyes, but she refused to meet his. So he nudged her, shoulder-to-shoulder, holding a coy little smile at his lips as he did. "You only get that angry at people you care about." He rubbed his forehead. "Believe me! I had to learn that the hard way."

Though she wanted to, she didn't chide him for assuming her feelings. After all, he was right. If anyone had earned the right to deconstruct her―through pain and heartache―he definitely had.

"I like to think I knew your father pretty well," Mohn continued. As usual, he understated things. "I don't know what he was thinking, but…"

"It doesn't matter," she said. She fluttered her eyes, feeling the unbearable weight of sleep. Under the faint light of lanterns and the brittle breeze, she could hardly keep them open. The pressure of pressing her eyelids shut forced out tears. "It… Doesn't matter. I have nothing now."

"Don't talk crazy! You have lots of things!" Mohn hoisted his arm upward, wrapping his heavily-coated limb about her shoulders to give her a friendly, encouraging shake. "Geez! You've still got your brother, you've got your career, you've got friends―" When he saw her unsatisfied expression, he paused his shaking but persisted in playing Pollyanna. "You've got us."

Lusamine could have systematically poked holes in his other points of optimism, as her brother was in the wind, her career had made her miserable as of late, and she couldn't think of a single genuine friend―but the last example caused her to frown. "And who, pray tell, is 'us'?"

"You know what I mean!" He chuckled nervously, liked he'd been caught. "All of us at Aether."

Aether?

Lusamine had been wrong. Mohn wasn't the one who stole Father's heart. In fact, as she looked into Mohn's tender eyes, she came to the conclusion that he didn't know the prize he'd been handed. No; her father had taken in _Aether_ as his child, replacing his biological offspring, who defied him at every turn. He saw that complex body of bureaucrats, scientists, workers, and directors as a source of certainty and trust.

At thinking this, the swelling pain of his rejection ached all over again.

Mohn's face fell. "Hey! What's wrong? Was it something I said?"

"I don't have Aether," she said. In her shame, she looked away, concentrating on the slowly-crackling surface of the frozen pond. "He wants me to have nothing to do with it."

"What?" Without looking at him, she could hear his shock with the clarity of glass. Mohn took hold of her shoulder. "But I thought―you said he had come around? You said you were a shoe-in―"

"I was bluffing, Mohn." Exasperated, she put her face in her hands. "He's always been against me, but I thought for sure I had enough time to persuade him."

"Then―" The uncomfortable question briefly stuck in his throat. "Then who's taking the helm?"

Lusamine had a few seconds to ponder how to break the news―or whether she would at all. She dropped the nub of her burned cigarette into the snow beside her.

"Don't tell me he was still gunning for Nick. No offense―your brother's crazy-smart, but I do mean _crazy,_ as in I'm worried he's going to someday invent a death laser and take over the world."

Mohn's comedic rattling-on betrayed his fear of her answer; if she was going to reveal it, she'd better do it now, before he unleashed the rest of his prattling stream of consciousness. After biting her numb bottom lip, she whispered, "It's you."

"It's―" Because he wasn't thinking, he nearly parroted what she said before the words' meaning caught up with him. He froze. Blanched. A sharp exhale whiffed from his lungs, carrying no speech along with it.

"I imagine it'll be quite the upset," she surmised. "The board will likely tell you when you report in tomorrow. They won't want to waste any time with the regime change."

"You're not…" Mohn planted a hand atop his head, where he squeezed and mussed his hair. Contrary to what she expected from him―puppy-dog enthusiasm, elation at being picked―he looked profoundly disturbed by the idea. "You're not pulling my leg?"

" _Mohn_." She found herself becoming irritated by his lack of gratitude. "Be serious."

"I am being serious! This is nuts! He never even..." Mohn gripped his chest and appeared to reel in his seat, still wearing a shocked expression. "I-I don't know to say! I didn't expect this in a million years!"

...He didn't? Despite being practically adopted by the man, being mentored and watched after, being commended for his work in these last few years? Lusamine had a difficult time comprehending his disbelief. "It isn't _that_ surprising, is it?"

He turned to face her directly, consumed with guilt. "But you―! You worked so hard for this, how can I even think…?" Mohn put on a look she recognized well: his eyes darted from side-to-side, his mouth twisted, his brow furrowed. It was his chess-game face. Calculating his moves, several steps ahead. "I can't," he concluded, shoulders dropping. "I can't accept it."

Somehow, his rebuffing offended her even more than her father's rejection; Lusamine bolted to her feet, nearly catapulting face-first into the snow with the force of her standing up. Bewildered, she snarled at him. "Have you lost it?"

"This should be yours," he insisted. "You'd be a better choice, and the board's crazy if they don't see that. If I refuse to take over―it'll force their hand, won't it?"

"What has gotten into you!" She launched her shouting at him where he sat dejected on the bench. "How can you turn this down! Haven't you any guts at all?!"

Mohn got quiet. His eyes lifted, glistening from starlight. "I won't compete with you, Lu."

Her heart wrenched until it nearly spilled from her chest. "Coward!" she screamed. "Useless, gutless coward! I don't need your charity! Do you think I want your castoff prize?"

"...I want you to be happy."

"Well, I'm not!" Rage overtook her, so that she sobbed as she railed into him. "How can I be? Everything I have, every bit of respect I've ever gotten, I've had to _bleed_ for, I've had to fight for every inch, but you? People fall over you, draping opportunities in your lap, and you knock them aside, like they mean nothing! Do you think I'm fooled by your phony, hackneyed shows of humility? You! I see exactly what you are, Mr. Pavot! You're an―egotistical, arrogant show-off, and I'm not going to―what are you doing?"

Mohn Pavot had fallen. He stood up from the bench for only a brief second, then plunged, landing on his knees in the snow before her. In her shock, she paused her rebuke, and he looked at her, his face full of star-struck wonder. He puffed out a cloud of vapor, broke eye contact, and started rustling a hand into his jacket pocket.

"Mohn. What are you doing?" her mouth asked again, in spite of her brain moving at lightspeed, well into her astonished conclusion.

"I'm―" He muffled a curse and patted his opposite coat pocket after finding the first one empty. "D-did I―? Aw, shoot, don't tell me I―" Finally, he stuffed a gloved hand into his interior right pocket and breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't tell if the redness in his face was from the cold or his embarrassment. "Ah-h! False alarm. Found it." He brought out a small, nondescript black velvet box and held it out. The ring inside was modest in size but, to her, gleamed like the sun.

"Marry me," he said, and her consciousness swam.

* * *

Five years.

Five years had twisted by like an errant wind; she had blinked, and there it went.

Five years since meeting him in the dining hall, since deciding he was worth a hunt.

It hadn't been the fairy-tale romance she would brag about years from now, but most shockingly, neither had it been the brief, torrid catastrophe she initially sought. When she first dug her nails into him, she thought he would be an amusing distraction. That he would be good for a while, and then, like all men, he'd turn, and they'd break each other. In those first few months together, she held her breath, waiting for the crash.

And to her horror, none came.

Some surprise mutation, she decided, rendered him immune to her defenses, allowing him to slice through her like she were butter: he saw past her prickly shell, the worst of her attacks rolled off his back, he could tease her, he could tell exactly what she was thinking. He gave her poetry books instead of diamonds, talked about life instead of stock margins.

When she tried to induce disaster, he'd laugh and forgive her. _My little monster,_ he'd say, his accent still twanging, _did you really think you can chase me off?_

So she'd run. Break it off. Tell him it was all over. Sometimes, she didn't even break up with him, choosing instead to leave the country. Every time―every time it became too good, too perfect, she'd spook and disappear. It was equal parts shame―an inescapable feeling that she'd never be able to reciprocate his goodness―and fear―fear that the closer they became, the more devastating and inevitable the crash would be.

Over the years, she lost count of the times she ran away, and the times she came back to find he hadn't moved.

And now, here he was.

* * *

"I broke up with you last week," was the first contradiction she could think of.

"I know," Mohn said, then repeated, "Marry me anyway."

She marvelled at his strange, idiotic, brazen behavior, and found herself flummoxed to the point of struggling to form words. "Y―When did you―?!"

"When? Uh…" He gave the ring a sheepish glance-over. "I would be _real_ embarrassed to admit how long ago I bought this…"

"But―" She could hardly stand it; she wanted to scream. "You had it with you this whole time? Were you planning this all along!?"

"What? No! I... " Mohn could see his gesture backfiring, so he hurried to defend himself. "This has been in my pocket since… Er…. Well, like I said. Kinda embarrassing."

"You could have lost it!" Lusamine ranted, suddenly more angry at his lack of planning than the proposal itself. "Or I could have found it, and then what would have happened?"

"Those are both very fair points, hadn't thought about that, but…" He started chattering his teeth. "...Okay, I know this _looks_ comfy, but my knees are soaking through, and it's _mighty_ cold―"

Lusamine sighed. "Oh, for heaven's sake, get up." She reached out her arms, helping him up, uttering " _ridiculous_ " as she did.

He wiped down his soggy pant legs and looked expectantly at her. "So?"

"You're crazy."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"What are you thinking?" Overwhelmed tears formed at the corners of her eyes. "Of all nights to ask this of me―"

"I'm sorry." His remorse sounded genuine. "I… I would have done it earlier, but… No matter how many times I asked him…"

(...How old-fashioned of him, to await her father's approval and permission.)

"...And I hate it, doing it like this, but…! I can't do this for another minute, Lu. I can't wait any longer. I think it's fair to say I've had the patience of a saint, so as much as I feel like a complete heel…" He shut his eyes, shaking in realization. "I really am a coward, aren't I? Waiting until he's gone…" When Lusamine did not interrupt to assure him otherwise, he sighed and shut the velvet case. He crushed it in his palm and spoke in renewed determination. "But in a way…! In a way, I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything. I just want you."

Lusamine shuddered and told herself it was the cold. She tried to think of something―anything to stop him. "I told you," she said, throat hoarse, "you mean nothing to me."

"Yes! You've said that and worse! And you've given me excuses! Every excuse in the book, every way you can think to send me packing, all your dreams and things you said couldn't fit me―you had a career to think about, you told me, you said stuff about family, travel, money, freedom, babies, politics… And I don't care about any of it! It all can go to hell, Lu!"

More insults rolled off her tongue. "You're a hopeless fool."

"I suppose so." He laughed weakly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Being in love does that to a guy."

Lusamine was so affected by his zeal, that she almost answered him, almost blurted out her own, useless feelings. She stomped them down in time to bemoan her fate again. "This doesn't change anything," she lamented. "Even if you refuse the promotion… The board won't ever consider me…"

Impatiently, Mohn planted his hands on her shoulders. "This is more important than that!"

"I'm not going to be president."

"Then be my wife!" Mohn could tell she was wearing down, so he pressed closer, until their foreheads touched. "I don't know the future. But I know―whatever happens―I want you to be in it."

Lusamine knew what she would say, if she had courage.

That deep in her heart, she knew too many truths: that she didn't deserve him, that he didn't deserve the agony she'd bring him, that she felt theirs was a star-crossed fate, that accepting this bliss opened them up to unspeakable tragedy in the future. She knew, she knew, she knew. Somehow, she knew it was a no-go, that the universe wasn't done punishing her yet, and she would be a cruel wretch to drag him into her wake.

But she knew he wouldn't listen, and while her spirit was willing to prolong her self-inflicted torture, her flesh was weak. She was selfish. She wanted, despite not having any right to it, a little bit of happiness.

 _So cold_. Lusamine could hardly see his face, for all the crystalline puffs of air swirling between them. The water under the frozen pond flowed its quiet way, sloped and pushed by the lazy, hibernating flaps of Magikarp tails. The black sky opened, the stars taunting her with blinking bits of doom. Mohn's hands and forehead proved the only warmth in the universe in that moment, his eyes fading embers in the dead of night.

She shut her eyes, and the cold slipped down her throat and back, like the winding belly of a snake.

She couldn't ever hope to fight him off. This insane, handsome, beautiful, brilliant idiot―who swore, against his better judgment, that she was worthy of intimate knowing.

When she assented, she did it without words, working her gloved hand over his chest, under the scarf, between the buttons of his shirt. His heart thudded away beneath the pressure of her palm. Feeling it made her entire body want to curl up and burn.

The kiss fell on her, breaking open her veins, flooding them with sizzling electricity. Where her ankles had gone numb from standing in untrodden snow, they now lit up. Warmth climbed her legs, enveloping her spine and limbs with crackling energy. Mohn fixed his arms around her lower back and pulled, giving her the momentary sense of weightlessness, like gravity didn't matter, like _he_ was gravity now, and his lips drew her in. She felt dizzy. Almost nauseous, from the spinning and fireworks in her head.

Was she floating? Falling? Her body and heart flipped in the unknown, and for a euphoric, lightning-bolt second, she didn't care to know.


	26. Ego Sum Nihil - MemoryDisc3: Air

**/ /MEMORY_DISC_3: AIR**

/What seemed corporal / Melted, as breath into the wind.

* * *

"Why do I have to go, anyway? Why can't I stay here?"

Lusamine shut the suitcase atop the bed, allowing the latch's clunk to disguise the sound of her sigh. She thought the whining would cease by the time the shuttle arrived, when excitement for the trip usually overpowered childish nerves. No such luck. As she pulled the suitcase out onto the floor, she gave Gladion a tired, subtly irritated look. " _Because_ , darling," she said, certain she had explained this countless times before, "this is what we planned. As we have every year. Remember? You had such fun last time."

"I won't be in anybody's way," he countered, voice beginning to heighten. "I could stay in my room and not bother anyone."

She read his face. His golden locks had fallen into disarray over his forehead, covering his furrowed brow and intense eyes. He sat slothfully in his chair at his desk, limbs splayed out, as if he were melting out of his seat. Since she promised not to interfere with his dress style while he was on the trip, he currently wore a black t-shirt, because of course he was. It matched his mood well.

Lusamine put a hand to her hip and tried to breathe in slowly. While Lillie had been a sweet, traditionally-paced child, Gladion was born early and seemed intent on continuing to live ahead of schedule. He became an eloquent chatterbox at one, an avid reader at three, and now, a surly teenager at seven. Lusamine could only hope this meant his actual years of puberty would be a time of cool, refined temperament.

After pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to reason with him. "...What kind of mother would I be if I let you hide in your room all day?"

Gladion sank further in his seat, groaning over-dramatically, as if she was proposing a regimen of torture, and not outdoor play.

"Besides, it's perfect weather this week, and it isn't good for children to be cooped up inside."

After placing the suitcase near the bedroom's door, Gladion picked himself up out of his chair and sprawled over his bed to continue his grumbling. He might have gone on like this, but then the door crashed open with tremendous flourish.

"He-e-ey!"

The voice, and the zeal behind it, were unmistakable: Mohn.

Having come upstairs directly from the labs, he still donned his lab coat and eye protection. His thick gloves had been stuffed hastily into his front coat pocket, and his red-tinted goggles sat atop his head, which made his hair puff up like a lion's mane. The music in his voice was joined with the patter of small feet as Lillie, high-strung as ever, toddled past his legs and into the room. The hyperactive toddler was prim and gussied up, hair braided into neat pigtails, her puffy sun dress bouncing with her springy legs.

Mohn spotted Lusamine first and grinned. "Hey, hon!"

"Hello, Mr. President," she returned, talking on an overly-formal tone. "Able to pull away from your work at last?"

"Ah, yeah. Sorry I'm late. Real mess down there today." He glanced over at his two children and puffed up excitedly. "How are my little monsters!? Ready for their big trip?"

Lillie squealed in affirmation and latched onto Gladion's legs, which dangled over the side of the bed. "Yes! Le's'sgo now!"

Gladion didn't move, but narrowed his eyes at the ceiling with annoyance. He nudged his legs in an attempt to break her hold on him.

"Get up! Get up!"

Gladion didn't appreciate getting orders from his little sister. He glared at her. "...Why?"

"'Cuz we're goin' to the _beach_!" Lillie clambered up onto the bed and gave the mattress a few, stern hops, jarring Gladion where he lay. "We're gonna eat _ice cream_! And french fries! Until we're a gajillion pounds!"

While she jumped about, Gladion growled and planted his hands over his ears. "Ugh. Stop _yelling_."

Their mother rejoined: "Lillie, be careful."

In response to the warning, Lillie made her final bounce astride Gladion and landed on him stomach-first. The whole tousle made Gladion groan and squirm with even more animosity.

Mohn, seeing Gladion's discontent, frowned. "Aww, what's wrong, buddy? You not feeling well?"

Lusamine answered for him, "He's just being a bit of a grump."

"I am _not_ ," the boy denied―grumpily.

Between the couple, Mohn tended to be more successful in consolation and sympathy―to make up for his miserable track record in keeping rules and order. Now, he looked at Gladion, contemplated the problem, and asked, his words swimming with earnest care, "Is something wrong?"

"...No. I just don't wanna go this year."

"Well, it's a tad late to call it off now! Come on. Once you get on the boat, I bet you'll feel right as rain."

Gladion, with sudden urgency, sat up on the bed, uprooting Lillie's weight. He whined, "Why can't we go together?"

"Hey―you'll be with your sister! And Miss Wicke! Won't that be fun?"

Gladion folded his arms and gave both parents a stern glare. His young mind had deduced something. "You're only sending us away because you want to _kiss_."

"What?" Mohn shook his head in disbelief and clucked, "When has you being here ever stopped us?" He threw his arms around Lusamine's waist and, without warning her, planted a sloppy kiss on her mouth. (Lusamine pretended to be offended.)

While Gladion cast his eyes away in aghast embarrassment, Lillie shrieked with giggles, climbing down from the bed and dancing around her father's legs, tugging on his lab coat as she chanted: "Me next! Me me me!"

"Oh?" Mohn released his wife and stooped down, scooping up Lillie with a bear-growl. "Arrgh! Gonna eat ya up!"

With Gladion and Lusamine looking on―the mother with eminently more amusement―Mohn and Lillie spun, Mohn mock-devouring her arms and face, and Lillie screaming with delight. "No-o! Daddy!" The girl, still giggling and ticklish, pushed his grizzled face from her cheek. She scolded him. "You're supposta _kiss_ me!"

"Wha-at? But you're so tasty!"

His daughter gave him a severe look―as severe as a four-year-old could be, anyway.

"Aww, okay. Where should Daddy kiss you?"

She thought, and shyly pointed to her mouth first. "Here." And then her left cheek. "And here."

Gladion, who had up to now tolerated their saccharine routine, huffed at the sight of his father landing loud, paternal smooches. "D-a-ad."

Mohn must have thought he had successfully dodged his son's complaining; surprised, he looked past Lillie's head. "Huh?"

"...Don't you _want_ to come with us?"

Mohn and Lusamine exchanged a meaningful glance. Lusamine wouldn't take the bait, so Mohn was the one who relented. "Of course we do! But your mother's busy, and Uncle Faba and I are doing some very important tests this week..."

Gladion heard the excuse and thumped the soles of his shoes against the edge of the bed. He cast a dour look and snottily contradicted, "Mr. Faba is _not_ our uncle, so you can stop _saying_ that."

Perhaps the young boy was hoping that if he upset the right person, he could be grounded and exempted from his vacation. Certainly, he chose the right sore spot: no matter how Mohn tried, he never succeeded in building a bond between his best friend and his children, and that fact continued to deeply grieve him. So though Mohn, a professional bluffer, continued to smile like a dope, Lusamine knew the comment had wounded him, if only a little. She barked at her son. " _Gladion_. I know you're unhappy, but that doesn't mean you get to speak to your father that way."

"No," Mohn said. He still smiled not entirely believably, and adjusted his arm beneath Lillie to hold her closer against his chest. "It's all right." To ease the tension, he touched noses with his daughter. "Well, sugar-plum, what do you say we get you going?"

Lillie lifted her head, staring into him with big, wet, suddenly-alarmed eyes. The realization that she was about to be separated from her parents must have only just come over her. "Kiss me goodbye?"

Mohn easily read the stalling tactic. "I think I just did, sweetie."

"Kiss Mommy?"

"Got her, too."

She pointed at her brother, who by now sulked his way through the doorway and into the hall, passing off his bag to the attendants carrying their luggage. "And Glad?"

Mohn laughed. "I'll make sure to get him later."

* * *

The Kalosian sea was calm and blue when the parents waved the shuttle goodbye. Off in the distance, in the direct path of the boat, Cyllage City's coast glinted with its towers and attractions, offering sufficient entertainment for the little ones.

Seeing the children go caused mixed feelings, but in the company of her husband, Lusamine was able to be honest. Her shoulders slumped. "It'll be good to have a few days of peace, at least."

A few seconds of nothing but seabreeze, waves, and gull cries passed. Mohn broke the relative silence with a sigh. "I miss them already."

"Yes―you would. You don't have to put up with the sass-back all day."

"Hmm." He scratched the scruff on his chin and mulled playfully, "I don't mean to be petty, hon, but sass _definitely_ carries on the X chromosome."

He was right―not scientifically of course, but in spirit. And she hated that he was right. Some days, she wondered if her father, from beyond the grave, had sent her Gladion as a form of revenge.

"Well, anyway, they're still awfully cute," Mohn said dreamily. He waited a moment before coming up from behind her, resting his head on her shoulder, wrapping his arms about her waist to cradle her, and sliding in a question: "So… How would you feel about a third?"

Lusamine shot him an unimpressed, coy glance. "Oh, is _that_ your plan for the week?"

"Hey! I'm not gonna hide in the labs all day." He laughed and kissed her neck, eliciting an interested purr. "Speaking of―it's back to the grind for me. What are you up to?"

"Oh… I think I'll follow you. I want to see what my boys are cooking up."

* * *

They called it the Pinhole.

It had a more technical name that she never remembered and Mohn never used, but in any case, Mohn cautioned against ever calling it a wormhole, which he insisted was an anomaly of an entirely different category.

The Pinhole―it had the diameter of a quarter dollar, and yet it had taken years of time and massive expenditure of money and energy to create. Mohn talked about it like a third child, even annoying Faba by calling it their "baby," as its birth had been a mutual labor of love between the two colleagues. The Pinhole's nursery, to further the metaphor, was a large, hermetically sealed laboratory beneath Aether Paradise, separated from the outside world with walls of lead to prevent exposure to any errant radiation. (They had detected from its very inception the presence of strange energy signatures, and so they took every precaution necessary). The Pinhole sat at the center of the room, encased in yet another layer of lead, opened only when they administered tests. Most testing was done with remotely-run trolleys on tracks, but it wasn't unusual for either Faba or Mohn to throw on a radiation suit and trek the nursery themselves.

Lusamine had only seen pictures of the what the Pinhole looked like. It didn't have a clearly-defined shape. All she could determine was the hole was very small, very bright, and very delicate. Like a star one could cup into a pair of open hands.

Although Lusamine didn't have the same scientific background or training as her husband, and so didn't know the fine ins-and-outs of theoretical physics, she prided herself in being relentlessly curious. She vowed to herself not to let any of her husband's projects escape her notice, and even if she could only grasp the underlying concepts in layman's terms, she sought a working understanding of everything. She knew the basics: the pinhole was a small opening in the fabric of space-time, giving them miniscule access to another dimension. They had measured this other dimension's temperature, taken samples, inserted borescope cameras and other recording devices… anything accomplishable with equipment they could slide into an opening less than an inch wide.

Today, as Mohn often did, he took time out of his presidential schedule to "play" with his old project, though he'd officially handed project-leadership to Faba. It was the least he could do, since he wasn't able to give his friend the coveted Branch Chief title―Alban had been careful in specifying those he trusted with various positions, and Mohn, to Lusamine and even Faba's occasional vexation, was simply too gutless to take on the directors over it.

The door to the laboratory slid open, revealing the observation wing: a windowless, claustrophobic wall of monitors and equipment. Faba, in his natural state, sat at a computer, poking around energy readings.

"I'm back!" Mohn declared, only somewhat startling his friend.

Faba recovered from his flinch and wheeled himself around in his chair, hand still on the keyboard. "Good, I was about to get star―" Faba spotted Lusamine and tripped over his words. "...t-ted. Oh. Madame."

Lusamine folded her hands in front of her and politely half-curtseyed. "Mr. Faba. How has your morning been so far?"

Faba bit his tongue, gave her an admonishing look, and wheeled himself back around. He pushed his glasses up against his face. "...Just fine, Madame."

Faba. In some ways, he hadn't changed from the day she met him. He remained a charmless man, void of charisma, easily cowed, and for all his brilliance that she came to appreciate about him, he had yet to figure out how people worked―how to get people to cooperate with his genius.

Working under Branch Chief Hawthorne―Alban's aforementioned pick―hadn't done the poor man any favors. Hawthorne was inferior in all relevant ways for the position: less intelligent, a worse planner, and the worst taskmaster. But he was an awful suck-up and egotist, lavishing praise on his superiors and never hesitating to take credit for the work of his underlings. These traits, Lusamine had concluded long ago, must have endeared him to her father. Unfortunately, this made for an uncomfortable arrangement, because Hawthorne generally disliked Mohn, and he _hated_ Faba. For his competence. For his willingness to correct him in front others. For his absolute refusal to sing Hawthorne's praises and kiss his feet.

Hawthorne wasn't in the labs at the moment. Lusamine could feel it in the air; outside of his presence, Faba breathed more freely.

"I assume the children made it off safely," Faba said, attempting small-talk.

"Yup!" Mohn cheerily took a seat at the other corner of the room, stretching his arms. "Kids are gone! Feel free to cuss up a storm."

"I'll… keep that in mind."

"Hey, I got an idea!" Mohn's eyes brightened with unstoppable enthusiasm. "You should come over for dinner!"

"Oh! Yes! What a wonderful thought!" Lusamine clapped her hands together in an eager gesture. "You'll do it, won't you, Mr. Faba?"

"I…" Faba slumped over his screen, fidgeting with his glasses. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Don't be silly. It's been ages since we've had a proper meal together."

Mohn chimed, "It'll be like old times!"

Faba turned around to look at the two. He saw their strength of conviction and knew he wouldn't be able to fight off the both of them. He made a last-ditch effort at sabotaging the offer. "I don't… mean to be rude, but… What will be served?"

The couple glanced at one another, puzzled by the question, until Lusamine made her deduction. "Oh, that's right. Mohn told you were going vegan."

"I'm…" He let out a brief, irritated breath at personal details being leaked in such a manner. "...Experimenting with it, yes."

"Oh, not to worry; it'll be no trouble. I'm sure the kitchen staff will be able to throw some… manner of salad together. With nuts and berries... Grass clippings..."

Mohn interrupted and declared fiercely, "Don't listen to her. She's just intimidated."

Faba frowned and rolled his eyes. He resigned to his fate. "...Grass clippings it is, then."

"Great!" Mohn said. "I mean―no, seriously, we'll get you real food, but _great_!"

"Yes, yes… Wonderful… Now, Mohn, if you wouldn't mind…" Faba pointed limply at the controls in the corner.

Suddenly, the president remembered his task. "Oh, right! I'll open the hatch for you."

With her husband distracted by a monitor screen, Lusamine was free to walk the room as she pleased. She drifted her attention between screens and men, but eventually settled close behind Faba, even placing a hand on his shoulder as she overlooked him.

He twitched with intent to remove the hand, but never did.

She watched him work, his fingers clacking over keys at lightspeed, his limbs as thin a bird's. Furtively, she leaned into his ear to speak. "So? Another dietary change? Do you intend to try photosynthesis next?"

"Very funny," Faba snapped. His side-eye and increased clackiness in his typing communicated his genuine feelings.

"I mean, _really_ , dear." She reached down and pinched her thumb and forefinger together around his wrist. "Eliminate any more food groups from your diet, and I'm afraid you'll disappear into thin air."

The intimate touch made him jerk away suddenly, breaking contact. "Please," he hissed. "I'm trying to work."

Ah, Faba. So easily flustered. She smiled sweetly on him. "Yes, I see." Crouching further close to him had the dual benefit of making him uncomfortable and giving her a better view of his monitor. Security footage of the Pinhole and surrounding rails. From the rather colorless landscape, she could identify the containing capsule for the hole, and a prepared trolley waiting at the outer edge of the room. The trolley was built much like a cannon, seated on wheels, with a metal extension sticking out of it like an outstretched arm, and at its tip was… something. A glass container of some kind. The track it rested on led straight into the path of the Pinhole. "Mohn has buzzed on about these tests. Whatever are they for?"

Faba's typing slowed. He could never resist a chance to show off, so he readily began his explanation. "The plan is to expand the micro-portal by several millimeters. It won't fix our accessibility problems, but it's an ambitious task. It'll certainly bear some interesting data."

"What's that at the end there?"

"It's an ignition package."

"Mr. Faba! Are you and my husband planning on blowing this island to pieces?"

"It'll be a concentrated blast," Faba said. "Perfectly safe."

As they bantered, the small capsule shifted and opened. In the constraints of the grainy computer screen, the Pinhole's luminescence translated into indistinct, white fuzz.

"Are you staying, Madame?"

"I can't say no to some fireworks."

"It won't be…" Faba huffed. "...Whatever. Mohn, I'm sending the package."

Mohn grunted affirmatively, and with a smooth stroke of his finger, switched his own screen to a view of the trolley. He sat up straight, starting to chew his thumbnail as he watched.

By pressing and holding a command key, Faba made the trolley shudder to life and begin to inch along the track. The equipment must have been heavy, because it moved sluggishly, but steadily toward its target.

The two scientists watched with rapt attention, but Lusamine suddenly experienced a thought and snorted.

Faba dropped hold of the command key and blinked, clearly irked by the noise. " _What..._ is it?"

"Nothing," she insisted. She waved a hand in front of her face to try and dispel the smile on her face. "Only... It's a bit sensual, isn't it?"

"Madame…"

"Honestly! There's a rod, and insertion, and an explosive tip―"

Faba slammed his hand down on the desk. "Woman! Will you be quiet!"

With any other man, Lusamine would have been offended. But with Faba… She couldn't help it. She tittered. "I'm sorry! Don't let me interrupt."

After glowering at her, he did return to the command key, moving the trolley closer by another few feet, but that, too, didn't last. A mechanical problem hitched the machine, causing it the jam and freeze on the track.

"Oh dear, did you break it?"

"I didn't break it," Faba rushed to say. "The trolley just… misaligned with the track again. It happens sometimes…" Faba wheeled himself around. " _Mohn_."

"Don't worry about it, dear," Lusamine kept babbling, trying and failing to contain herself. "I hear plenty of men have trouble performing―"

"Mohn, for God's sake," Faba repeated, his voice now stern as well as annoyed, "your wife is making a mockery of the scientific process."

Without looking up, Mohn asked, "You want her out?"

" _Yes_."

Lusamine put on a gobsmacked expression and placed her hands on her hips. "Excuse me?"

"A-a-all right." Mohn pushed himself up from his seat and trotted over, swinging an arm about her waist. Though amused, he still employed a parental tone. "C'mon, Trouble. Let's head outside."

"I can't believe you're kicking me out," she said as he pulled her along. Despite her caterwauling, she wasn't being serious, and Mohn could tell. "It really is unconscionable."

"I'm sorry, hon, but Faba's word is law down here." He twirled her out into the hall and pinned his arms in the doorway, gazing at her with heartfelt affection.

She returned his googly eyes by sashaying close to him, pushing against his chest, and dragging a finger down his neck. She mewled, "What's the point of being married to the president if I can't do as I please?"

He laughed and answered cheekily, "I can think of some exclusive benefits that you enjoy."

"Oh. Shut up and kiss me, you awful man."

He obliged.

* * *

Lusamine woke up to find the time was later than she expected. She had fallen asleep in a reading chair, next to a window in the library. The book she'd been studying lay flat and open on her chest, so she picked it up and noticed the light falling on her skin. The sunlight had gone a dark, rich bronze, an almost fiery orange. Evening was falling.

Strange, she thought, as consciousness bubbled back into her brain. Mohn should have returned for the afternoon to work in his home office. Had something come up? She wracked her sleepy mind. A meeting, perhaps. Or a last-minute change in schedule. Something…

The remnant slumbering turned the rest of her theories into a fog, but after getting up and replacing the book, the thoughts still stuck to her. She tried to walk it off and went out into the main hallway, expecting to hear the noise of children, but―oh, that's right, they're gone, too.

The house was so empty.

As Lusamine paced the hall, hearing the clack of her heels echoing far across the floor.

Then the doorbell went.

She didn't think much of it. She fluffed her hair, descended the stairs, and only for a second wondered who it could be. It was too early for supper, and besides, the boys wouldn't press the doorbell, they'd let themselves in…

It was Branch Chief Hawthorne, flanked by several employees.

The light hit them in such a way, that they stood in dark silhouettes looming over the doorway. She couldn't make out their faces, but there was something in how they stood there, not speaking for an eternity of several seconds, and the weight of their presence crushed her. Her brain, as merciless as ever, read their body language and threw her into a spiral of dread. Her stomach plummeted; her vision closed in on her. She gripped the door as if it was the only thing keeping her from flinging into space.

She just barely had the cogency to ask, "What's happened?"

"Madame, you need to come with us," Hawthorne said.

A scream snarled up from her throat. "You idiot! You _idiot_!" She felt herself launch forward, swiping her nails at him. "Tell me right this instant! Who died?"

And because Hawthorne was a fool with the emotional sensitivity of a rock, he wouldn't answer. He just stayed solemn-looking and grave, stubbornly insisting she had to come with them, that they'd explain everything when they go to the Aether office. She only stopped screaming and pulling on his lapels because dizziness from sobbing overtook her.

On the long, long walk to the Aether building, through the haze of her confusion and terror, she saw that the place looked… peaceful. Unaffected. It centered her, some, to look upon the ivory walls glinting calmly in the sunset, but at the same time, it produced frantic thought processes. In her head came the calculations no one ever admitted to making: what was the worst scenario? A thread of irrational thinking made her believe, for a horrible second, that she had to choose: your husband? Or one―or both of your children? Or a friend…?

But of course it was already done, and in the end, the universe didn't honor her choice.

* * *

(Some nights…)

(Some nights, when Lusamine lies awake, she remembers how he looked in that moment before she left the lab. How he sounded when he dismissed her with a casual, "See ya later.")

(See. Ya. Later.)

(His face rounded out with age, softening his cheeks. After more than a decade of marriage, he still had the glimmer of youth, and still had the guts to challenge fate and the universe. He poked holes in it. He laughed in its face. That's why he said it so boldly, so certainly: "See ya later.")

(The brilliant fool.)

(In reading the legends of tragic heroes, she learned it was hubris that inevitably conquered them. Was that his sin? Was it hubris?)

(And was that sin so great that he…?)

* * *

In the report Aether provided her, they sacrificed tact for accuracy.

"We don't know all the details yet," Hawthorne had said. "But we know a wormhole opened in the lab, and the president… your husband… went into it."

The desk before her was empty aside from a manila folder, in which she could only assume they had condensed all the facts of the tragedy into a neat, typed page. The sea of faces dressed in white stared at her, like she was an exhibit at a zoo, like they were awaiting her response and meant to use it. God, they were probably recording her, ready to use her words in the event of a lawsuit―had lawyers been called? Had the police?

She could only think in words one at a time. "Wormhole?"

"Yes, it… It took him. He's gone. Madame, are you understanding me?"

White noise. White noise. She strained her throat, able to say next, "Faba."

"Mr. Faba's all right," Hawthorne told her. There was almost… regret in his voice. "He's in the medical wing. After the wormhole closed, the incendiary device must have gone off; we felt the shockwave upstairs. He's got a concussion but he'll recover."

Groping through the soup of her consciousness, she found one last phrase to slur out into the painful light of unsympathetic faces. "My babies."

"The children are fine. We just spoke with Ms. Wicke. We didn't… Inform them of the situation yet. We figured you ought to make that decision. Now, Madame, there's a lot we must discuss..."

She couldn't breathe. She slid her hands out onto the desk, a false attempt at grabbing at the folder, but instead pushed it aside. "Then…" Finally, she lifted her eyes to look into the branch chief's dim, blank expression. "What do we do?"

"Do?"

She thought she didn't have any more tears to give, yet here they came again, spilling over her face. "How do we _find_ him? How do we get him _back_?"

Hawthorne didn't answer, because there was no answer, and a part of her knew that. But the tantruming child in her didn't; the part that loved Mohn didn't.

* * *

Mohn hadn't died.

Dying, Lusamine might be able to tolerate. Dying meant knowing. It meant a body, or remains of some kind, and the assurance that whatever made him what he was―his soul, his essence―had been permanently taken away. Dying was ending, and she could accept it.

But this… The universe had erased him, ripped the very cells of his body out of this dimension. His atoms would never decompose and return to the earth, or water, or stardust. He became a quantum physics riddle: dead? Alive? Both? Who knew? Was he suffering? Frightened? Stuck in a reeling eternity, or dissolved into mush? Was he anything? Nothing? Was he lightyears away, or standing right before her, separated only by a thin skin of dimensional fabric? It seemed with every passing hour, her mind came up with a fate more nightmarish.

Because Aether didn't know what to do with her, she spent the first few days after the accident cast out, in No-Man's-Land, wandering her house without access to additional information. The children remained on the mainland, for now happy and oblivious―she couldn't think of a reason to shatter their last few days of innocence, and having them return to Aether served no material benefit. However, that meant the days rolled together in lonely, meaningless, silent hours, lying in a cold, half-empty bed, watching sunlight slide over the wall and disappear. At times, she drifted asleep and awoke with a start, thinking, _I had the most terrible dream_ , but upon reaching over to the empty side of her bed, she remembered, and every time, she felt the renewed sensation of hot metal skewering her gut.

So with waking proving too painful, she retreated again into sleep.

* * *

The bedroom was so dark, she couldn't see her hands before her.

What day was it…?

Did it matter…?

The length of her body felt stiff, like it hadn't moved in years. When she pulled up her knees beneath the covers, they tangled in her nightgown, and she had to tug on its skirt to free herself. She thought about getting up. Didn't, for a while. The all-present hush of ocean water managed to leak in through the shut window, and in minutes of sitting in the dark quiet, she heard, too, the patter of rainwater and rattling of howling wind against glass. A steep rumble shook the room, accompanied with a flash, painting the walls and furniture in a sudden, evanescent swathe of blue light.

The air, repressive and black, made it difficult to breathe, and after sensing the room closing in on her, she rolled desperately out of bed. Her knees hit the floor too hard, but by grabbing the covers on the bed, she was able to pull herself to her feet. More light, dancing about the room like manic sprites.

Dizzy. Nauseous. Starving. She stood facing the window, watching the shadows in her head morph into faces and monsters.

Lusamine reached her reading desk by memory, taking careful steps in the dark, and between feelings its contents with her hands and the occasional waves of light, she found a nearly empty bottle of wine (which explained the dizziness and nausea) and, of special interest, pictures in frames. She picked one up with both of her hands, squeezing the glass beneath her thumbs.

By bringing the picture close to her face, she could make out the imagery. Gladion and Lillie. Her children. Those two squirming, crying things―how she wanted to hold them close to her, absorb them back inside herself. In her dreams, she fantasized of dissecting the two, and extracting what remnants there were of Him, cobbling together some Frankenstein's monster. _Half of their genes_ , she thinks in these fevers, _are his. Half of them_. If she could pull them apart―if she could, with some spell or alchemy, rent apart how his and her traits had tangled together in those living mockeries…

Trembling, Lusamine dropped the picture onto the floor. She had become used to it, her thoughts occurring without her consent, her mind trailing down paths she would normally never endure. Imagination seemed to carry no more sting, no more horror, when her reality remained macabre and gruesome by comparison.

She stumbled away, struggling to stay upright. The mirror at her vanity desk startled her by flinging her reflection at her, and she fumbled for it despairingly, colliding with it by throwing aside the chair and standing before it.

In the black mirror, she could see murky, disembodied pieces: an eye, strands of hair, a stretch of neck, a hand. And the closer she drew to the glass, the more strange they looked, twisting and revolting themselves, like writhing white creatures slithering in her vision. Her breath fogged the mirror, turning the last of any clarity into a faint ghost of personhood.

She pinned her forehead to the cool surface, pushing into it until the glass crinkled with strain. "Mohn," she whispered.

The shadow pressed against the glass on the other side. Her heart throbbed.

"...Can you hear me?"

The self-aware part of her noticed the slurring in her voice. Pathetic. Useless. She lifted a hand, banging her fist into the glass with a miserable groan.

"If I died, would I fly to you…? Would we find each other…?"

Silence. The shadow wouldn't answer her.

"If I could only… tear this open…" She dragged her fingernail across the glass, producing a whining, painful squeak. "Only a little… Just enough to see you…"

When it didn't work, her voice failed. Her face sank into the glass, as if she hoped to be swallowed by it.

"Please," she begged, and her tears swirled like dark sky, "please, I can't."

.

.

"I'm nothing without you."

.

.

* * *

Beneath the grumbling night, after a long and terrible silence, she felt the grief in his heart morph into anger.

She remembered now, seeing her father's grief upon his wife's passing―his weakness, his falling apart, his hollowness. She remembered his disappearing into his office for days at a time. She remembered hating him. She was Gladion's age when it happened―

And it was happening all over again. Was this her fate…? Was it a curse? Would it ever matter, how hard she beat back against it? Were her, and her children, and her children's children, never going to escape this rampant pillaging of their bloodline?

...No.

If the universe thought it could do this to her, as if she would simply lie back and let it go… It had another thing coming.

The wind passed by like a ghost, screaming and shaking her window. She snarled into the mirror. "I don't care." To prove it, she dragged her nails slowly across the skin of her forearm, until bright, white paths traced the length of it. "If I have to bankrupt this place; if I have to rend apart the very boundaries keeping this world from the next; if I have to shred this dimension apart―to find him―I will. Do you hear me?"

At her wrist, there came the first dopples of blood seeping from under her nails. Like perfect pearls, they beaded and swelled, sitting atop her skin―until gravity won, and one after another, they fell, winding in delicate threads about her palm and fingertips. The wind still howled. She took it as an answer.


	27. Ego Sum Nihil - MemoryDisc4: Water

RUN / / MEMORY_DISC_4: WATER

/ By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust / Ensuing dangers; as by proof, we see / the waters swell before a boisterous storm.

* * *

Lillie had left the window open again. Lusamine knew this because when she awoke that morning, she lifted her head and caught sight of a Wingull perched atop the bed, pecking at suspect lumps in the bed cover in a search for food.

She stifled a cry of surprise and kicked at it beneath the blankets, to which the bird squawked and flapped onto the floor, waddling back for the windowsill. A second attempt at flight successfully led it back out into the open blue sky.

Lusamine sighed and collapsed back onto the pillow.

She glanced to her side.

Lillie, in her pink nightgown, sprawled under the covers without grace, legs close to hers, after a long night of the little limbs kicking at Lusamine while she tried to sleep.

At her other side, Gladion, with more care, had nestled against her side, resting an arm over her stomach to keep hold.

The Wingull hadn't woken either of them, nor had her kicking at it. Carefully, she reached over Lillie's head and took her pager from the nightstand. She noted the time. In a slim ten minutes, they would need to get up. She decided to lie back and wait. Sleep still hung over her like a heavy cloud, weighing down her head, and a few more minutes of this felt like heaven.

Since the children were still asleep, she felt safe in uttering the uncomfortable truth: "At some point… We'll have to start sleeping in our own beds again."

Silence, aside from the occasional puff of drowsy breathing. She reached for their heads and felt their hair tangling between her fingers.

Grief was difficult enough without having to stay strong for the sake of others. Lusamine had a new position, new duties, new routines… And two children. Children, she realized, who could not be depended on to handle their mourning in a private, controlled manner, nor had the capacity to give her needed personal space. They had to be taken care of, on top of all the burdens she bore already.

The two responded differently, of course. Lillie, being the youngest, was more adaptable. She screamed the loudest at first when she learned her father was not going to return, and threw the worst tantrums, but after a few weeks, she became accustomed to their situation and reverted back to the sweet, complacent girl everyone knew. She laughed; she played. Lusamine struggled between feeling relief that the event did not traumatize the girl, and resentment that her daughter had moved on when her own grief was still raw.

Gladion, a hint more mature, had a more complex reaction. Realizing that someone so central to his life could be so easily whisked away had shaken the boy. He transformed into a somber, nervous child, awakened by nightmares and taking the world far more seriously than any little one should. While Lillie toddled obliviously about, largely unaffected by the emotions of those surrounding her, Gladion was keenly aware of the grief in the adults' lives, in particular his mother's. He became more clingy and more watchful. He hovered. Lusamine got to be self-conscious in his presence, because he observed her with such intensity.

Cloyingly, she pressed them closer to herself. Soon, she would have to get out of bed. She would have to face another day, endure more meetings and power-plays. For now, though… The morning wind blew, punctuated with the far-off cries of gulls.

* * *

As Lusamine prepared to call the meeting to order, she noticed a few empty seats. Hawthorne's empty seat was no surprise, nor were the empty chairs reserved for the board of directors. One seat had been especially neglected as of late, but she overlooked that, too. The collection of important employees, primarily the managers and head of departments, sat at the long table, exchanged pleasantries, and chatted between themselves in a mundane, quiet manner, awaiting the official start. There were mugs of coffee, papers being passed around, and the occasional scribbling of notes.

Among the whispers of employees, she overheard gasps and murmurs of surprise. Though she couldn't immediately hear the target of the gossip, the truth revealed itself when he arrived.

Faba entered the conference room.

Seeing him did not jar Lusamine as badly as it did everyone else; she had visited him regularly in his suite over the last few weeks. But the employees' collective surprise was not unfounded: Faba hadn't been spotted outside of his apartment since the accident (aside from, and Lusamine only knew this in confidence, his desperate visit to the board of directors, where he ranted and pleaded against their choice of presidential candidate). His reclusive behavior had been interpreted as guilt, insanity, depression, obsession. So to appear now, without giving notice, sent everyone's speculation into a tizzy.

Despite the rumors, he looked rather at ease and healthy. He walked in, hands in his coat pockets, eyes avoiding contact. His clothes were neatly pressed and showed signs of care: an ironed dress shirt, necktie, and white lab coat. Without pausing to make sense of the murmuring and stares in his direction, he settled into his seat toward the other end of the table and leaned back, folding his arms in wait.

Lusamine decided to call attention to his emergence. "Mr. Faba," she greeted. "What a surprise. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

He didn't answer verbally, but neither did he fidget. He looked at her and blinked coolly.

"You'll be working in the labs today?"

"I suppose I might as well, Madame," he answered, deflecting her tone of wonder. "I have plenty to catch up on."

"Indeed." She couldn't hide her pleasure; she smiled. "We're glad to have you back. Your sabbatical has certainly done you some good; you're looking quite handsome."

An uncomfortable pause wedged into their exchange. Faba, evidently feeling the eyes of the room turning on him, recoiled at the unwanted attention. "Madame―" His face twisted with a touch of vulnerability, and the tips of his ears started to tinge pink. He tapped a finger nervously as voiced his request. "I was wondering―if it were at all possible to speak in private, just for a moment, before we start―"

She cut him off by glancing at her watch. "I'm sorry, we need to get started straight away. We have a guest who will be arriving within the hour, and I don't intend to keep us here long."

"...Guest?"

"Yes―we've all known about it, but you have been out of the loop."

Faba looked ready to stammer something else, so she kept talking, delivering all relevant instructions. As she spoke to the staff for some minutes, Faba continued to eye Hawthorne's seat, noticing its vacancy. He frowned and stroked his beard.

When the meeting finished, just as everyone began to gather their notes and ready themselves for the day, she stood up and addressed him abruptly. "Mr. Faba."

He twitched to attention.

"I know you're eager to get back to work, but I'd like you to accompany me for this business."

The request clearly baffled him. He tried to think of a way to express his misgivings.

"It's only that, I'd like a representative for the science department with me," she explained. "In case he wants to get technical."

* * *

Nikolai LeBlanc's arrival at Aether Paradise presented the Foundation with a unique challenge. On the one hand, the man was a son of Alban, a member of the founding family. But on the other, he had never before set foot on the manmade island, and with his recent legal complications, they had to take certain security precautions. Lusamine had provided clear guidelines: don't address him unless necessary; answer his questions succinctly; no pictures; no personal queries. He was to be respected as a guest, but handled like a hazard.

As Faba and Lusamine ventured upstairs to the helipad, employees scuttled over the floors in a not-so-subtle panic. Everyone scrambled for their places, and once reaching them, seemed to stiffen and hold their breath in wait.

Lusamine had not seen Nikolai in years. Their last meeting in person was at their father's funeral, an event he probably only attended because Mohn threatened to fly to Unova and abduct him if he didn't. His presence at the funeral proved… muted. Chilly. She never figured out what exactly he felt―if anything―and as soon as the formalities were done, he hurried off, back to his precious research. Since then, there had been the occasional phone call, but nothing else.

She wasn't worried. Nikolai might be eccentric, but he was rather predictable, and she felt she had a grip on his pattern of behavior.

Under the open sky of the helipad, the assigned group stood in attentive rows at a distance from the landing platform. Lusamine placed herself between the rows, and Faba uneasily followed after her. The chopper, at first a distant, mosquito-sized speck, grew in size and gradually came to hover far above their heads. The roar of the machine slicing through air boomed over the atmosphere, and as it lowered, the noise and impact shuddered the platform under their feet. Then, with time, the helicopter lowered and aimed its landing, sending rushing pulses of wind against them, whipping up hair, coats, and anything else not pinned tightly to their person.

From the small distance away, she could see him―a suggestion of him, anyway. Once the helicopter touched ground and the motor sighed release, an Aether attendant stepped out, followed next by Nikolai, who slid easily out under the slowing whirl of blades.

As he approached, he glanced at a tablet of some kind, then replaced it into his front pocket.

With age, he had sprung up to her height, gone even more impossibly spindly, and had adopted a certain swagger with his recent infamy. He wore a trim black suit and shoes, and a pristine double-breasted lab coat, buttoned conservatively once over his stomach, allowing its lapels, belt, and bottom flaps to wave about freely in the wind. The dramatic swoop of blue hair added to the over-the-top flair.

Though he should have gone to Lusamine first―it was only polite―in his typical, idiosyncratic way, he addressed the various attendants instead, shaking their hands and greeting them. As they were used to being ignored, the gesture made them more uncomfortable than included.

"Ah! Hello. I'm Colress. Nice to meet you. And―so nice to meet you, I'm Colress―"

He might have gone on to greet the janitorial workers downstairs, if she didn't intervene. "Nikolai," she said, calling his attention. _Did he really have to insist on going by that moniker_? she wondered. _Especially now that it's been plastered in the news?_ "I'm glad to see you've made it safely."

Nikolai twirled, saw her, and released a pleased sound. " _Lulu_." He glided over to her, taking up her hands, planting a kiss on her right hand. He threw out a few gushing phrases in French, but his years in Unova had laid ruin to his accent and tones.

"Your French has suffered," she told him flatly.

With a ragged, remorseful sigh, he wrapped her hands in his and pressed them to his chest. He put on the most nauseatingly sympathetic voice he could muster. "Oh, Lucie. I came as soon as I could."

"It's been five weeks," she said, "so I doubt that's true."

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation."

A few seconds went by without elaboration. Lusamine arched an eyebrow. "...Which is…?"

Nikolai, his bluff called, hastily cast his eyes on Faba. "Hmm―yes―look here! A new face."

Faba was about to snip at him, but Lusamine made the correction. "He isn't new, Niko," she contradicted gently. "This is Mr. Faba. He's been with Aether since the beginning. He's one of the leading researchers here."

Nikolai blinked, a blank look overshadowing his face.

"You should have seen him at the funeral," she added.

That last detail must have hit a nerve, because Nikolai broke the conversation path and foisted his hand out at Faba. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Colress."

But Faba didn't take his hand; he glanced at Lusamine. "Your brother is Colress," Faba said, clearly stricken with shock.

"You didn't know?" The more she thought about it, the more she realized this open family secret had never been discussed with the man.

"The scientist who joined and controlled that terrorist cult in Unova," Faba went on. "And helped said cult freeze over the entirety of Opelucid City."

If Faba were her child, Lusamine might have tugged on his ear.

But Colress gasped and smiled broadly. "Lulu! You didn't tell me I had an enthusiast in your midst."

Faba curled his lip and grumbled, "I wouldn't exactly…"

"No, no, the pleasure's all mine!" Colress swooped in at him, this time forcefully taking up his hand and giving it a shake. He leaned in conspicuously to tell him, "But, for future reference, you should remember to include 'allegedly' in your statements: as in, _'allegedly'_ joined a terrorist cult, and _'allegedly'_ froze Opelucid City. It's simply more technically correct."

Faba snapped back his hand, glowering.

"Anyhow, I'm not surprised by the confusion. The news media was very reluctant to put this―" (Nikolai cheekily waved at his own face.) "―Gorgeous visage on-screen, and my sister _refuses_ to address me properly."

Lusamine could no longer contain it: she rolled her eyes and turned, waving for the group. "Let's head downstairs."

* * *

To Lusamine's increasing irritation, Colress continued to give no indication of his intentions. Since announcing his desire to visit, he only vaguely referred to wanting to "see her" and "talk things over," which for a normal sibling might mean emotion consolation and support. But she knew better. From the moment he stepped out of the helicopter, she saw what he was doing: he was sniffing the air, searching for blood. Searching for opportunity. He admired the great white halls of the facility as they walked them, but his regard for the place had a cutthroat, hungry quality to it, like a man approving of an animal about to be slaughtered and eaten.

When they exited the elevator and stood at the front entrance, just before the preservation area, Lusamine stopped the group and spoke to her brother directly.

"Seeing as it's your first time at Aether Paradise, I thought you might want a tour of the facility."

"Oh, that won't be necessary right now," Colress said, slicking his hair back with his hand. He seemed to be counting heads over at the front desk. "That will come in due time."

Both Lusamine and Faba shot him a confused look. When he refused to explain himself, Lusamine cleared her throat and folded her hands before her. "Nikolai―perhaps you can excuse me for asking, but what exactly _did_ you come for? When you requested this visit, you weren't especially specific in your plans. Is there something you want?"

He pretended to be shocked by the latter accusation; he set his eyes on her, looking at her more as a step in a process, than a newly-widowed sibling. "I do not want you to worry one bit," Colress purred. "I'm here for you."

"...Are you."

"Why, yes! I know how difficult it is for you to accept help in times of difficulty. But everything's going to be all right," he said, and then bowed deeply with one hand at his chest and another firmly wrapped against his back. "Because I, Nikolai, Baron de LeBlanc, will gladly accept the position of President of the Board."

There it was. Lusamine didn't know whether to be angry at him for his arrogance, mock him for the tardiness, or pity him for his naivete. To appear suddenly like this―with no strategy, no claim, just to throw his name into the ring, _five weeks late,_ no less.

Faba expressed his disbelief before she did. "Did… Did you _hit your head_ very hard, or…?"

"Did you think that's all it would take?" Lusamine asked, more diplomatically. "Showing up?"

"Well of course! Father always intended me to lead the Foundation in his stead."

"That he did," Lusamine replied, between clenched teeth. "But you might also remember rejecting the idea. 'Boring,' 'tedious,' you called it―"

"Ah, please! The words of a zealous youth!" He tutted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You know how it is. We mellow in our age. Besides, I have traveled well, made my discoveries, and led the life of an independent researcher. I daresay I've had enough adventure. It's time for the prodigal son to return to his father's house, don't you think?"

She decided to let him down easy. "You tarried too long, Niko. The position has already been given to me."

Colress gawked at her, then at Faba, then at the few employees standing nearby. "Surely you jest." He read their expressions and lifted his hands in an aghast shrug. "What a queer joke you're playing!"

"There's no joke, I assure you," Lusamine said.

"My dear sister…" He sighed and shook his head. "While I don't doubt your commitment to the Foundation… Certainly even you can see you are not equipped for such a position. This is a place of research, medical science, and preservation. Not a fashion runway."

(Lusamine smiled darkly to disguise her feelings; Faba, not so subtly, twinged.)

"How did you ever convince the Board to back you? Used your feminine wiles, I suppose."

"I resent the implication," Lusamine replied, though she still smiled glowingly, like everything about this amused her. "They are all happily-married men, I assure you."

"Don't be so coy―we both know that's never stopped you."

"You―!" Quite suddenly, Faba, who had until now stood stock-still, burst with repressed rage. In a shrill, hysterical tone, he howled, "How dare you address Madame in such a disrespectful manner! She has more infinitely more right to the position than you; you've never even set foot in this place!"

After he finished, the two siblings stared at him in shock―and Lusamine burst into ringing laughter. Confused, Faba clammed up and looked at her.

"Oh, Mr. Faba!" she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "There's no need to be so serious." With the conflict deflated, Lusamine made a decision. She moved, stepping toward the conservation area and motioning for her brother. "I think we ought to take a walk." When her staff, including Faba, shuffled readily, she quickly told them, "My brother and I need a few minutes to ourselves. Would you mind waiting here?"

Of course it wasn't a request. In a brazen gesture of familiarity, she took Colress's arm, pulling him along and up the ramp toward the glass-walled greenery.

* * *

If there was one aesthetic element inherited from her father that Lusamine worked to maintain, it was his love of gardens. When he first moved to Aether Paradise to work full-time, he ordered construction of the personal garden behind their home, and worked tirelessly to maintain an environmental biome in the main building, in which he envisioned injured, abandoned, or otherwise helpless wildlife could continue to live naturally, without being captured and contained. The walkways over the creatures' homes allowed employees to observe the pokemon, as well as navigate the area without causing too much stress or damage to the habitats. Alban believed the animals deserved a space where they could flourish and live as closely as they would outside, so he transplanted everything from the mainland. The trees, the bushes and grasses, the soils, the rocks, the sand, the flowers. Even the water filling the ponds and pools was imported from the river at the coastline.

Colress, not complaining about her sudden extraction, walked with her on the platforms, and he looked about, identifying the individuals of various species scurrying underneath the observation deck: the small brush mammals, reptiles lounging on rocks, water-types soaking and swimming in pools. Lusamine stopped them both at a platform close to the center of the room, where they were granted some shade by some tall, proud oak trees.

She let go of him.

" _Mon petit frère_ ," she said, "let's not fight."

"I don't think I could take you in a fight," he replied, laughing. He rested a hand on the guard rail. "Nor do I want to."

"Then what is this nonsense about?"

"Honestly? I was hoping you didn't want the position."

Lusamine scoffed. "Oh, I _see._ You came to take this burden off my hands, is that it? You were going to do me a favor?"

"What can I say? I try to be generous." As Colress considered saying something else, he was briefly interrupted by the flapping and perching of a red Fletchling on the guard rail, near his hand. The bird twitched, hopped along the rail, and blinked at the unfamiliar visitor. Colress awarded its bravery by greeting it― _why, hello, friend_!―and sifting through his pockets for an offering. While he searched, he addressed Lusamine again. "I only mean, now that you have two children to think of... Wouldn't you rather focus on raising them?"

"You have never met my children," Lusamine growled. "Do not presume to know what's best for them."

"But think of what an advantage it would be!" Colress put a hand to his chest in a show of passion. "If I lived here, I would be so close to my niece and nephew… It would be good for them to have a man around; don't you agree?"

"There are men enough on Aether Paradise."

Colress burst into a cheerful cackle. "Yes, I suppose! Like that funny sidekick of yours!" He found a cracker, and broke off a piece of it, allowing the Fletchling to peck at it from his fingers. "You can exhibit some peculiar taste."

"I know why you're really here," she interjected, voice dipping into a cool, frigid tone. Hearing the sharpness in her voice caused the Fletchling to startle and zip away into the trees. "And it isn't because you've suddenly discovered a passion for charity."

"You think you know me so well? Let's hear your theory."

Without hesitation, Lusamine began to explain, "You've been working with someone willing to fund your research, no doubt in exchange for your talents. But your 'patron' has… Shall we say… Gone with the wind." Lusamine watched the edges of his eyes, hoping to see the slightest strain. But he had always been a hard one to fluster. "Your funding has dried up, and you still have projects that require ample money. So, what better place to turn into your personal playground?"

"You always assume the worst of my intentions," Colress complained. He stuck out his bottom lip in a mockery of a pout. "Suppose you're right; you can't tell me you aren't thinking of doing the same thing. Or have you bought into this charity nonsense after all?"

Beneath the dapples of sunlight beneath the trees, for a second, she glowed with ethereal, matronly light. "I've come to believe in the Aether Foundation's capacity to bring good into this world."

Colress mulled on her statement and guffawed. "You know what I've learned about cults? Their leaders don't usually believe their own teachings... Until they stay in it too long. Then they start to fall for their own rubbish." He clucked at her, disappointed that she, too, was fallible. "You've gone and brainwashed yourself."

"Perhaps," she admitted. "But it makes no difference. I'm the president, and there's no more to say on the matter." Lusamine didn't keep eye contact with Colress long enough to measure any of his disappointment. She turned heel toward the exterior exit, planning to stride out and leave him to follow after. A rush of satisfaction hit her―the sort that comes from snatching a toy out of a younger sibling's hands and claiming it for one's own. But a creeping, more mature awareness of risk almost immediately dampened her gratification. Sending him away empty-handed would be pleasurable, but also a danger. She paused in mid-step. She took in a breath. Time to swallow a bit of pride. "Yet… As president, I can extend certain gestures. I will set aside a sum of money for your research. Let's call it an endowment, perhaps, in the interest of scientific progress. It should keep you comfortable until you find a more permanent patron."

Colress lifted his head at her in surprise, looking at her even when she turned her back to him. "You would do that for me?"

"Of course. So long as you agree to my terms."

"Hmm. I should have known." He shrugged. "I'm listening."

"I see through your facade of innocence, Niko. You're a dangerous man."

It was as if she spoke magic words, lifting the glamour. The boyish softness of his expression narrowed, his eyes dropping to dark half-slits, his mouth curling into a smirk. "You really think so?" (Even his voice took on a dripping, rumbling purr to match the catlike sharpening of his face.) "You flatter me."

"If you take this grant, you must agree to stay away from Aether―and my family."

The shadow lifted; the sparkle resumed in his eyes. He clapped his gloved hands together and grinned amiably. "Oh! Well! If that's what you want from me, I suppose I have no choice!"

Lusamine absorbed his satisfaction with the deal and went quiet.

Colress could have shut up and taken the money without any more babbling for favor, but she felt him watching her back. Perhaps he was unnecessarily overcome with sentiment, or perhaps he thought there remained some unplucked advantage. He studied her. Then he said, "Do you have regrets, sister?"

Lusamine remained silent.

"My former employer liked to say that regret is a fool's errand. I'm inclined to agree, but I'm human, after all. I think often now of our childhood. We should have gotten along better." He smiled again―that bright, sweet, saccharine smile they both inherited from their father. But as he spoke, a hint of genuine lament shaped his grin. "Can you imagine? What a force to be reckoned with, the two of us would have been, side-by-side!"

...Was he being genuine? Was he playing at something? She couldn't tell with him anymore. She fixed her fingers against her palm, until her nails pressed small welts into the flesh of her hand. "It's time for you to leave," was her only answer. She started to walk.

When they reached the group outside, she waited for the group to disperse, leaving her only with Faba.

"You know what I've realized?" She turned to him, seeing his nerves and ignoring them. "We never had that dinner."

It took Faba a moment to remember what she was referring to. Recalling it pained him, as evidenced by a sudden wince. "Oh." He shook his head, trying to weasel his way out of it. "I don't expect you to…"

"How about tonight? We have much to discuss."

Lusamine could see it in his eyes: he was making furious calculations in his head, with no good outcomes visible to him. He would say yes―he would arrive later that evening, with the same, deer-in-headlights look he gave her now―and she would make one more move.

* * *

Faba stared at his glass of water as it rested on the table. He hadn't touched it.

Faba was not commonly invited by anyone as a dinner guest, for justifiable reasons. He had never been the sort to chat, which made him rather miserable company. He also expressed a modicum of discomfort in eating around others, like he believed it to be a weakness he didn't wish to expose. As a non-social sort, he preferred the isolation of his suite or lab, where he could fix food that matched his ever-more-inscrutable preferences and avoid others' commentary. Lusamine had come to understand this as not simple picky eating, but yet another strand to his web of neuroticisms. A symptom of underlying complexes.

It all added up. She liked that about him. His flaws, his eccentricities―they all connected, in neat, categorical terms.

The light in the dining room had gone dim in the evening, leaving only the candle-like glow of the overhead chandelier. Lusamine sat at the head of the table with a shallow glass of wine, and placed her guest at the seat adjacent to her. The children were eating in the family room, leaving the two of them alone.

This intimacy and privacy set Faba on edge. He sat stiff-backed and still, waiting for her to initiate either action or speech. To make him uncomfortable, she allowed this to go on too long, sipping at her wine and gazing vacantly at the opposite wall.

"Hmm."

That noise alone coming from her throat was enough to fluster him. He gripped the nearest edge of the table.

"The meal should be ready momentarily," she blathered. The meal actually _was_ ready, but the time wasn't right. She softened her eyes and locked them with his. "So, Mr. Faba. How was your first day back?"

"I have… Nothing to complain about."

"I'm glad."

Faba shifted his eyes. He tried to reciprocate. "How―" Just then, he must have realized asking her a mundane question about her transition might be inappropriate, so he took a hard turn. "How are the children?"

Lusamine gleamed with a smile. That he pretended to care was a sign of care in itself, to her mind. "Children are more formidable than we give them credit," she said. "At times like these…" Her voice slowed, then soured as her smile fell. "At times like these… Age can be a disadvantage."

Surprised by her sudden,downcast introspection, Faba searched her expression. He slipped his hands flat onto the surface of the table, like he meant to reach out, or pick himself up, but he did neither.

"Mr. Faba. Earlier today, you said you wanted to speak to me in private. What was it you wanted to talk about?"

"Oh… I only... " He took in a breath. "I wanted to congratulate you. As our new Madame President."

"That's kind of you. It was hardly a herculean effort."

"So… You didn't, erm―face any opposition, or―"

"Oh, no. Hawthorne might have thought about vying for it, but he saw it wasn't in the cards."

"That's, that's good. You deserve it." ...He couldn't help himself, could he? An intellectual he might be, but he didn't have the mental wherewithal to play political games, especially at such a high risk. He knew he had bungled his attempt at grabbing power, and he must have felt the axe hovering over his neck, waiting for his betrayal to come into view. He overcompensated for his fear, babbling transparently about his loyalty: "I just want you to know, I support you, and I'm committed to Aether under your management, one hundred percent."

"Oh, _Faba_." She shook her head in disgust at his groveling. "Don't be silly; I know that already. This isn't really what you wanted to tell me, is it?"

Faba clammed up.

"Darling―I'm not dense. I know what's bothering you." Lusamine reached across, placing a hand atop his wrist where it rested on the table. She squeezed, communicating meaning through the pressure that made Faba recoil. She gave him a second to squirm at the ambiguity of her statement―to tease him with the possibility that she knew―then, in a sweet, consoling tone, she whispered, "We found comfort in one another. That's all it was."

That succeeded in snapping him out of his mopey stupor; he went white with anger, yanking free his hand and shuddering, barely able to form words. "I don't―!" His nostrils flared with bristly exhale. "Madame―I choose not to know _what_ you're talking about."

Lusamine was not surprised by his hostile response. He had more reasons than she to find the whole matter vile and unpleasant. Still, she frowned. "There are more mature responses, you know."

"I don't _care,_ " he snapped. " _It was―_ " He about bit his tongue off in frustration, then flitted his eyes away and crumpled in his seat. At last, he plucked his water from the table to drink from it. "It was a mistake, and I―wish to talk about anything else."

She could have pushed the matter. Honestly, though, she wasn't sure it would do any good, and besides, the door out to the kitchen opened. Dinner was ready.

* * *

The incoming servant placed the two plates before them, arranged only with a filet mignon at the center of each platter. The meat had been lovingly pan-seared in butter, the skin of it still crackled and steamed, and it rested atop a pool of its own crimson juices, some of which gummed about the crisp edges.

Lusamine waited for Faba to say something. He didn't say a word. His mouth opened, as if ready to speak, to point out her mistake, but just as quickly, he shut it. Surely he knew that she _hadn't_ made a mistake. Surely he knew that she meant something by it.

She ignored his blanched face and told the servant, "Thank you. But―could you be a dear and get a glass of wine for Mr. Faba?" She looked directly at Faba. "You can't eat a steak with only a glass of water. We're not barbarians."

"Yes, Madame, right away."

Again, Faba stiffened like he wanted to object, and again, he silenced himself.

With the wine and platters set, and the servants sent away for the remainder of the meal, the two sat in momentary silence. She watched his change in demeanor, as it twisted and revealed his awareness of his predicament.

She folded her napkin into her lap and redirected the conversation. "Well, you had something to say―and now it's my turn. With you not at work for these last few weeks, there's so much to cover. Where should I start? Perhaps you were already filled in on certain matters."

Faba said nothing.

"For instance, I've decided to move Aether Paradise. In the next few months, we'll be navigating the structure to settle in the Alola region. Mohn always had an interest in the place―as you know."

Though Faba still didn't answer verbally, she knew the extent of his knowledge. Mohn readily referred to the mythology of the local people in Alola: their beliefs in "cracks" in the sky that could bring men to heaven, or send down monsters on helpless tribes. The region's protective gods, according to their folklore, had many battles with these monsters. The locals even believed in mysterious spiritual energies that could be imbued in pokemon. Though the stories could be dismissed as merely such, Mohn took on a scientific interpretation of Alolan tales. Extra-dimensional lifeforms, he said. Spontaneous wormholes. Radiation signatures.

Faba, a careful skeptic, had never been entirely convinced. "That's… a bold move," he said. "And to base it on… rumor and innuendo…"

"Did they show you? The material sample collected from the wormhole?"

Faba blinked, almost drowsy with confusion; he shifted in his seat, and then admitted, "Y-yes, they showed me. As well as all the test results."

"What have they discovered?"

"They found… That upon retrieval, its surface temperature was forty-two degrees celsius, which within the hour fell to thirty-six degrees, and has remained there since. It's dense. It's carbon-based. It's currently inert, doesn't respond to stimuli, has very weak energy signatures…"

"And?"

Dutifully, Faba completed the statement. "And there's reason to believe it's alive."

Lusamine tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the table, before picking up her utensils and beginning to slice a small, delicate piece of meat. As she cut, she explained, "In Mohn's notes, I found references to another common story in Alolan folklore: a being known as the child of the stars. It was said to have fallen from the heavens, always asleep… But with love and care, the child awakens again, and in due time, it can find its way home."

"You think… You think this object might have the means to open a wormhole."

"I genuinely believe that it is our best hope." She placed a bite of steak in her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and shot him a look. "As you can imagine, my beliefs have caused a bit of a stir in board meetings lately. Hawthorne especially had unkind things to say about my decision to focus on wormhole research. Of course he took the coward's way about it―directing his criticism at you―" She leaned in toward him to share her gossip. "Do you know? The sort of hateful, vile things he said?"

Faba didn't answer. He continued to sink his eyes into the seared, oozing flesh of the steak before him.

"He said this whole business was your fault. That you're unstable. A liability. Why, he had the gall, the _gall_ to bring up those unfortunate circumstances―'vacations?' he said, 'try visits to the mental hospital'―I mean, honestly." She shook her head, thoroughly offended. "Now, to be fair… 'Vacation' was never a very good cover story, was it? But he was very rude for bringing it up, and I told him as much."

Faba inhaled sharply, like he had been struck. He couldn't fully disguise his hurt; his eyebrows stitched and he clenched his fists.

"You shouldn't let him get to you," she said. "He is a bloviating, small-brained, self-fellating bureaucrat." When Faba didn't jump to echo her statement, she pried. "You don't agree?"

"He's…" Faba eyed her, suspecting a trap. He deferred, "He's your branch chief, Madame."

A smile grew upon her face with such joviality that he thought, for a horrifying second, that he'd fallen for something. "I keep forgetting how long you've been gone." A tender laugh escaped her. "No, no! How little do you think of me? I wouldn't disparage my own branch chief like that!" And before Faba could make the necessary logical deduction from her final statement, she said, "My dear, you haven't even touched your dinner."

As he always did when he knew she was teasing him, he glared at her.

Then Lusamine stood up. Though Faba startled, she didn't give him time to ask what she was doing; she stepped behind his chair and planted her hands firmly on both his shoulders.

"What― what are you―"

"Faba," she said aloud, not calling him but rolling the name off her tongue. "Faba. Faba, Faba…" She slid her hands upward, past his shoulders and about his throat, then slipping past his jawline and ears, eventually applying pressure with her fingers at his sweaty temples. The threat and strange intimacy of the touch made Faba squirm. "How does 'Branch Chief Faba' sound to you?"

"I… I don't really see how I could be…"

Impatient that he wasn't keeping up, she rocked his head side-to-side. "Hawthorne's gone, dear; that much should be obvious by now."

From his pensive silence, she read a conflicting sense of shock and resentment―in that moment, he must have seen this reward not as a show of magnanimous generosity, but as a consolation prize.

"You don't like the sound of it?"

"No," Faba blurted, scrambling before she threatened to change her mind. "Of course, it's an honor; I would be honored."

"Well! I'm glad you're willing. But there's just one last thing." She drifted away, returning to her seat and folding her hands on the table, dwelling on the price she was asking. "There was a time when being an ideal branch chief meant… intelligence, discipline, order, ethics, loyalty." She paused, letting the word 'loyalty' dangle in the air to torment him. "But as it is in nature… When circumstances change, so do the traits needed to survive. I don't need some lily-livered granola-muncher; I need a man."

"Madame―"

Lusamine cut him off. " _Faba_. We are about to embark on a perilous quest. To find Mohn… we need to be willing to do whatever is necessary. No matter the cost."

"Yes, yes, I… That's true, but…" A beat of hesitation came before Faba's faltering objection. His eyes lingered again on the brown slab of meat. "Mohn… wouldn't want us to… do anything unethical."

"You're right," she declared forcefully. "But that's precisely _why_ we must be willing to do anything to bring him back. He's the sort who would sacrifice his own life to spare others pain. The world needs men like him."

"I see," Faba said. He went quiet a moment. "...I see."

"Then you understand. As my branch chief, you will need to stomach a little blood, a little cruelty from time to time. And if you are a man… Then surely I am not asking too much."

With a sweep of her hand, she pushed back a strand of hair from her face. In awaiting his answer, she returned to eating, cutting pieces and swallowing, letting the silence stretch on. In those few minutes, Faba sat stupefied, clearly wondering if she was serious.

But the steak remained, in all its symbolism, seared flesh and fork and knife.

Lusamine didn't know what it was like for him, but she could see his initial disgust, his shock. At first, he shook a little when he took up the utensils, but once he speared the mignon with the tines of the fork, he tensed with determination. The knife sawed against the muscle. It oozed blood. The timid, bite-sized portion sat at the end of the fork, its meat a rare pink, soft, gorey, and lascivious. He placed it in mouth, behind his teeth―nearly gagged―and had to suck in his breath a few times before gathering the courage to swallow.

She beamed at him like he had just slayed a dragon bare-handed. She trembled with excitement and leaned on the table, sinking her chin into her hand. "Try the wine," she insisted.

The wine was not so tall an order. He plucked up his glass and took a drink. While he didn't seem to have any qualms about the flavor, he did sway slightly after partaking in it, like his vision was whirling.

But she asked no more of him. She placed a hand atop his, to steady him in his light-headedness. "Branch Chief Faba. These next few weeks are going to very important for us. This change in direction… This newness… And on top of all this, we will have to defend ourselves from outside threats. My brother will not be the last of his kind. There will be others," she said, words weighted with their finality. "Other snakes who will crawl in between the cracks and try to steal what you and I have earned. With the falling of a leader… A transition of power… That is when a kingdom is most vulnerable. But I will beat back the barbarians at the gates. I promise you this."

Faba looked pale and cold, near fainting. She lifted a silken hand, smoothing a finger across the cold cartilage of his ear. She then moved her hand back, combed her fingernails through his thin blonde hair, and bore her eyes into his.

"Faba… My dearest Faba… I will always be able to depend on you, won't I?"

He shook, darted his eyes to the side, then, with intense resolve, sealed his gaze on hers and declared, "Yes, of course, Madame. Always."

* * *

Faba tried hard to be clever. He tried to rebel and assert himself. But Faba couldn't fight his nature. No matter the circumstance, he swallowed back the bile and did as he was told.

Not a spiritual man, in time, Faba proved as ruthlessly religious as she was: despite everything, he came to believe in her, and believed in her gospel. By their blemishes, by their sins, they would bring Mohn to salvation. Why else would he tolerate it…? The butchery, the senseless experimentation, the frozen corpses kept in numbered shelves, the robbing of sentience and agency. He did it all for her.

Over the years, they didn't marry, but in a way, they were married already: married by faith, as a priest is to his god. There would be those who would accuse them of having an affair―silly, ignorant people, who didn't understand how Faba was―but Lusamine didn't shy from that label either. What else could they call it? This binding, this cycle of love and hate, this violence, this loyalty, this impossibly intimate force.

 _Une affaire de l'esprit,_ she called it.

Because whatever foul act she committed, she could not resist the impulse to dress it in beautiful language.


	28. Ego Sum Nihil - MemoryDisc5: Earth

**RUN / / MEMORY_DISC_5: EARTH**

/ _The earth has music for those that listen._

* * *

In a stroke of incalculable luck, Lusamine had found the nest. It took a few hours of wandering the tunnels of this cave, following the paths of faint luminescent glow. She hadn't prepared as she ought to have; Lusamine was no survivalist, and hadn't fully anticipated the physical difficulties of traversing Ultra Space. Perhaps if Guzma had remained with her, as planned… but with his brawn spirited away by the capricious forces of trans-dimensional physics, she suffered alone. The rocky soil crumbled under her heels, tripping her. The air swirled thickly in her lungs. Her muscled ached. Everything around her pulsated as if alive, from the crystals to the stuffy air to the rocky columns of glistening hue.

But it had all been worth it.

Lusamine crouched below the rock before her, lifting herself only enough to peer back over its rim and see the clearing below. In the glow of iridescent obsidian, a chorus of Nihilego danced in a small circle, floating and bobbing in midair, their prominent front tentacles pawing each other. Their music was what had drawn her from so far away; the six beasts were so enraptured with one another, that their song echoed bravely, full of spirit, zeal, and joy. As she watched the innocent, beautiful creatures' jovial sway, she marveled how much they appeared like children. Their notes and squeaks had a mouse-like, giggling quality. Their tentacles searched each other like clumsy, eager hands. And the hem of their backs swished in the midst of their dance like a twirling lace skirts.

Thus far, they remained oblivious to her. She released a short, hot breath, and the scent of her sweat entered her nostrils. Her hands at first went for the handbag filled with beast balls, and through the open slot, her fingers trailed over the smooth, round surface area of the capsules. In a previous moment, she had considered releasing her Bewear and wrecking havoc. If the creatures were at all like pokemon, she may have to weaken them to prime them for capture. However, the very thought of attacking them made her stomach churn. They sang and glistened, like perfect pearls, ringing with innocent laughter. To bring harm to them―! Even of the most negligible kind, for the sake of claiming them―!

So instead, she decided to count on the element of surprise.

She brought out a ball. It rested firmly against her palm, but she would have to get closer before she could use it.

Lusamine stood straight and walked carefully around her hiding place, sneaking the best she could in high-heels and on exhausted legs. Tension pounded in her head, but within a few short seconds, she arrived within yards of them, and in a simultaneous squeal of alarm, the creatures ceased their singing. They whirled to face her, moving with eerily perfect synchronicity. At first they gaped at each other in silence, Lusamine enraptured and they, as best as she could tell, startled by the presence of an unfamiliar species.

A smile crept over her face. "Beautiful… Simply beautiful…"

The Nihilego, having had time to assess her, glided a few inches closer, still in unison.

"It's all right," she whispered, suspecting they read her as a threat. She cooled her voice and lifted the beast ball in her hand. "Just… stay still, and…"

When the beast ball flew, its trajectory swung high and sharply down, striking a Nihilego directly before her. The ball bounced off its bulbous head with a squishy thump, momentarily deforming the beast's bell shape before the slick film reinflated and a blinding light filled the cavern. The ball fizzled; the Nihilego disappeared into it; the ball wiggled briefly in the dirt, and went still.

The chorus of Nihilego _screamed_. A few of them hovered uselessly over the spot where their companion had just been, as if searching for it, but the others scattered in fright, floating up into the maze of black stalactites. When she stepped forward in eagerness to collect her prize, the remaining curious ones shied and blinked away.

In retrospect, she could understand why they reacted in such horror. The poor dears had never seen a human being, and they certainly had never seen any of their friends be captured before. From their perspective, a strange alien had arrived and thrown a projectile that dissolved their peer out of existence.

While standing over the quiet, shimmering blue capsule, she looked about the cavern and saw its emptiness. Far away, echoing down the tunnels, a collection of sad moans grew and then faded.

This wouldn't do. To capture one was a brilliant start, and her hands shook with excitement at being able to pick it up and hold it in her hands―but she wanted the others, too.

A chill passed over her. The sweat drenching her skin began to evaporate and leave her cold and vulnerable. With a shiver, she passed her hands over the flesh of her arms, rubbing warmth back into its surface. It seemed the longer she remained in Ultra Space, the more the environment grew hostile to her presence. The quicker she got what she wanted, the better.

Still shivering, she released her captured Nihilego. She held her breath. The creature materialized in another snap of light, floating a mere several feet away from her. In its disorientation, it spun in place and squeaked. Its tentacled arms at first reached out into the darkness, but when it turned back around and saw her, it shrank, almost wilting towards the ground.

At this close proximity, she could see details in its body not apparent before. Its bell had a peculiar pattern to it, little starbursts of light glowing through the brainless dome. The beast's skin was slick with a film of moisture, and as she looked upon it, droplets of ooze began to drip from the three nubs closest to its mouth―probably a fear response. The two low pelvic tentacles dangling beneath its arms had strange bubble-like organs, possibly for sensory purposes, as they wriggled about at the sight of her. And most impressively, its color came into full view: within its white, baby blue, and translucent flesh, she could see the occasional, diamond-like streak of rainbow colors: greens, blues, purples, reds, yellows. The hues danced and flickered, visible only when the light overhead hit the beast in the right way.

"My…" She breathed in and smiled broadly. "What radiance you have! And you're mine―! At last!"

The Nihilego rubbed its front tentacles together, like a nervous child wringing its hands.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," she told it, attempting to soothe it with her words. "You belong to me now. Why don't you call your friends back? I could bring them with me, too."

The Nihilego didn't respond with any show of comprehension. And why should it? Unlike pokemon, which had lived and evolved alongside humans for millennia, and thus possessed anything between a basic to a fluent understanding of human language, these beasts had never heard anyone speak. It babbled and drooled, puffing up its tentacles and body.

"Shh. My sweet little one. It's all right. Here, let me…"

She extended a hand warily at an upheld tentacle, and as the creature continued to sit very still, she managed to make contact, pressing the tips of her fingers into the watery, gelatinous film at the end of its tentacle. The slimy texture didn't deter her; she smiled.

"See? That isn't so―"

The skin of the tentacle wrinkled without warning, and a sharp pain shot up her fingers. She shouted in surprise and yanked her hand back. Bewildered by the sudden assault, she sucked in a breath and examined herself: she felt a fiery throbbing not unlike a bee-sting, and a small bead of blood formed at the fingertip.

The Nihilego's stance didn't alter. Its tentacles still fanned out like wings, and it trilled cautiously.

"Oh! Oh―" Lusamine shook and gripped her wrist as the pain intensified and began to crawl up her arm. "I'm sorry, my love. You poor beast, I― I must have frightened you―don't worry, look, you hardly hurt me at all, it'll be―"

With the speed of a lightning bolt, another of its tentacles lashed out, wound about her arm, and before she could let out a scream, she felt a long row of needles puncturing her flesh.

* * *

 _Body parts._

 _She saw body parts, floating in the darkness, disembodied, cold._

 _It took minutes for them to coalesce like puzzle pieces into something recognizable. An arm. A throat. A face. The assembly was never perfect, and the light never fully revealing, but in the murkiness of her vision, it was Him. It had his scent. It had his voice as it wrapped its arms around her, and it had his bare skin. Flashes of strobing light timed her vision and sensation of feeling: his hand at her hip, another hand wound about her wrist, lips at her shoulder, toes at her ankle, knee pressed tightly against her thigh._

 _It whirled and crashed and devoured with virulent passion, like a fire consuming her, her skin bubbling and melting, muscle slewing off from her bones._

 _"Mohn."_

 _Pain. Unimaginable pain._

 _Still, she pleaded, "Don't go. Don't leave me. Don't leave me alone."_

* * *

When she fully awoke, she couldn't tell how much time had passed, but she was on her stomach, face pressed into the rocky soil. The earth's jagged surface cut into her chest, stomach, and cheeks, and her muscles were so raw, that it took all her strength to dig her fingers into the dirt. Her head lolled to the side, her vision swirling and throbbing. Fire travelled from the cavity in her chest, rushing and burning through her veins with every beat of her heart. Her body couldn't fight it; her organs had been turned, now operating as agents of her demise, pumping the venom and corroding her insides.

Nausea overcame her. She gagged and heaved.

 _We see it in you,_ the voice said. _We see… loneliness._

A slick of oil-like vomit erupted from her mouth, smearing the ground next to her. Her eyes desperately trailed her surroundings, as best she could without being able to turn her neck. The caves, which had previously seemed desolate and frightening, now exploded with swimming color, promise, beauty unending. _Paradise_.

At the foot of the cave, her Nihilego rested atop a column of stone and waved its tentacles as it watched her writhe on the ground. Its rubbery, soft flesh appeared to have stiffened; it swelled up with excitement, its arms sharpened, and its streaks of iridescent color glittered with more energy. Perhaps it was the venom eating away at her brain, but she could see it rear up, almost as if sitting upright, and its dripping, saw-blade mouth opened as it spoke to her.

 _You want love,_ it said, the sound of its words drilling from inside her head. _We can love you_. _Lusamine. Share your love with us, be with us._

Her eyes hurt, so she forced them shut, but somehow, images still burned through her eyelids. There were columns of perfect ebony, fat pearls, diamonds, jewels. Her ears perceived the same musical notes that echoed through the chambers, but now her brain heard them too, close, so close. She heard not one, but multiple voices hissing inside her skull.

 _You want Him. We can share Him with you._

With her fingers ensnared in the dirt, she tried to crawl an inch forward and failed. She moaned. "How?"

 _Don't struggle_.

"It… hurts… to breathe…"

 _Hurt? What is hurt? You will not hurt anymore. Soon._

"When… please, god, when…"

 _Our essence flows through you now. When it is done… When it has passed through all of you… we can come together. You, and us. Together. Then, no more pain._

"To… Together…"

 _Yes… Yes… We will… Join you to us… And in time, your putrid, ugly body will dissolve, we will expunge the waste, and then we will truly be one. Forever._

Her brain tried and failed to piece together her thoughts. She only dreamed―dreamed of floating midair, her mind withering, her flesh, hair, and bone melting into soup.

Free, she thought. She'd finally be free.

She looked up. Beside her Nihilego, the chorus had returned, six, no, seven of them, lined up, joining their friend. They sang and admired her, and she found herself grinning.

"You're… back… All of your friends…"

And then they were upon her.

Tentacles wrenched on her arms and legs, spilled around her neck, pulled, pulled, pulled, and the pain of poison daggers set in again, shooting venom through her veins.

 _You'll never be alone again_ , the Nihilego promised her.

* * *

͠Sh̷e ̕fe̵l̨t͞ ̢h͘is it̶s ͠arms a͜ro̵u͠nd̷ he͢r, his ̨i̶ts̡ br̷eat͡h o͘n̢ ̴h͞er şki͝n. If ̢sh͘e͞ reac̢h͟ȩḑ o̵ut̷ i̢nto͝ ̢t̴h͡e gl͘o͏om̢, s̶h͡e̵ ̸co̢u̢ld ͞f̡e̛el͠ his͘ it͠s͏ f̛a̢ce, co̵ntor͠t̴e̴d ҉a̛ņd s͜t͞ra̢nge ̷b̵u͟t͘ p̛u͝r͞ely͡ i͝n͝ ̛love.

̡I̕n̶ ͠h͢is i͡ts͏ arm̴s҉,͝ sh̢e ͏wep̢t̷.͏

"̤͎͍̗̟͇ͅI͈̮̬ ͔̫̲͉̥͢ț̘̟͞ͅho̴̙̟̥̰ͅu͚͚̻g̤̭̘hṱ͉̻̙ ̤̰̺̗yo͔̤ṷ̟̱̕ ͇̭̼̻̦w̳̻̻̜̦̖ḛ͔͈̫̬̻͞r̺͖̰̤̦̞ḛ̯̠̞ ̩̺͖g̶̲̦̤̦o̭̝͔̦̙ͅn̖̩̣̗͡e̸̤.̴͕̖ ̰̹̫͔̜̙͡I͕̻̻͎͈ ͖͖͈͍ṭ̭̱̪͇̗h̰͓̖͚̼̟͉o̰͟u̞̹̘͢g̺̙͡h̛̖̩̮͚ͅt͈̲̯ ͓̦̳̻ͅy̲̹͖̮͇͘o̺͉͍͍͎u̮̪͔ ̤̗̕l̜̪̬̱e͏f͓̤̣͎̮͓͍t͍͕͔̙̗̖͝ͅ ̲ṃ̻̫̝̘̳̯e̳̣̩̹̦ͅ ̬͉̖̺̣̟a̻͚̥l̺o͚̙͔n҉̼͇e̳͈͍̼ ͉̲̲̠f͜o̠̼r̗̫e̟̣̩̼v͓̯̹̟͘e̫̕r."̱̹̖̘̪̳̹͟

* * *

 **/ /A disk read error occurred**

 **/ / Running diagnostic...**

ƚqdƧſΓИᙠЯɅƨʏ⅄up¿ɥǟȇȍȩȒƵƌŦŧźŒŔƒɔǧḾḌẦầɔʔỖỗộỚớỜỮỢỠởʩʣɷʞʮꝒꜺꟿꝯꝏꝊꝘꜰ...

▮ǧḾ▮¿Ʌ▮▮▮▯▯Иᙠhe "toxin" is in fact a colony of aggressive microorganisms suspended in a liquid of unknown but corrosiveỚớỜỮ▮▮▮▮▯▯▯ to colonial organisms in our world, we can further guess that each individual creature serves a▮▮▮▯▯▯ꟿctive purpose. Perhaps the outer, gelatinous individual serves as the hunter, or provides protection and mobility for the fragile colony, while the Ḿicroorganisms stun and diges ŒŔ▮▮▮ʮꝒ▯ɔ▯▯▯ᒐᒱᓱᗧᗙᘁᏍᎵᎬᏎ

▮▮▮▯▯ źŒty minutes, the parasitic organisms attack the prefrontal cortex, a region of the brain highly associated with self-control… after twenty mo… Ầttack the occipital and temporal lobe, triggering intense auditory and visual hallucinatiɥǟȇ… final stage, the parietal regions… feelings of transcendence and detachment…

Sup¿ɥubjects given immediate treatment in the form of blood transfusion and intravenous fluids seemed to recover from the strongest effects withiᒐ▮▮▮▯▯ ƌŦŧźŒŔƒɔǧḾing post-effects include mild nausea and disorientation, i▮▮▯reased failure rate in self-control-measuring tasks, heightened aggression, prolonged periods of stress behaviꝘ▮...

* * *

Guzma caught her this time. The last time he confronted her in her room this way, he had brought her prized beasts but failed to catch her before she hit the floor. This time, though… He entered the room and raced for her, not wasting a moment to snatch her into his arms.

Perhaps he noticed her weakness right away. It must have been apparent. She had spent all morning fretting and waiting for him; from the moment she was told the magic words―'he's coming back'-her stomach had bunched into an agonizing knot, and she wandered about her room enacting tedious tasks. She had to look right. She had to be wearing the right dress, the right make-up, the right hair. She shook as timid and anxious as a mouse, and as his arrival grew ever closer, so did the size of the lump in her throat.

But her shuddering and thready breathing had climaxed when a knock came at the door. She had thrown her arms about the pillar at the end of her bed, gripping it like a madwoman to keep herself from toppling over.

Her nurse had chided, "Madame, please sit down."

Lusamine couldn't stand it―not another minute of waiting. " _Answer,_ " she hissed, "quickly!"

And when Guzma entered, the door shutting behind him, she felt her knees failing. _He's beautiful_. A messy-haired, stone-faced, gawky-limbed goblin with shoes partially undone―possessing traits she would have disavowed a week ago, but now seemed heavenly.

So she fell, and he caught her.

Guzma didn't speak at first, only wrapping his arms about her, but she let out a strangled cry, a mixture of spent relief, agony, and yearning. She sank her face into his chest and looped her arms about his neck, suspending her weight on his broad shoulders.

"You're here," she sobbed freely. Her tears moistened his shirt, and as she heaved, his scent filled her lungs (an oily, faint musk, with sea-salt and palm trees―until now, she hadn't realized she knew his scent, or that she had missed it). "You came back to me."

Guzma didn't answer. Instead, he tightened his hands about her.

* * *

Before Lusamine met Guzma, she had only ever experienced one truth: that which left her, never returned.

But this… This tattered, wounded creature she brought in from the rain… Against all faith, hope, and reason, this creature came back to her. Again and again. He crossed mountains and valleys. He dug deep in the earth to unbury her; he climbed towers to deliver her. Her warrior. Her disciple. Her Leander, swimming the sea in storm and wind.

In comparing him to Mohn, she at first thought of him as lesser―certainly lesser intellectually―but the traits she initially dismissed as inferior, she soon found held their own, secret qualities. Where Mohn was silk and sky and sunlight, feathers and air, sweet and gentle, like a sonnet or a symphony… Where Mohn could make her feel possessed of ethereal spirit, that everything she breathed was him... Guzma was meat and bone, a carnivore. He made her blood boil, made her flesh crawl. He reminded her how it felt to be unsafe.

Even now, after Guzma sent the nurse away, physical threat lingered. The pressure from his grasp at her back almost hurt, and once the nurse had left them entirely alone, his hands moved to her throat. He kissed her, roughly. For a whirlwind of a second, she enjoyed this unprecedented forcefulness. But his thumbs pressed against her jugular, and she winced. As panic set in, she unravelled her arms and fixed her hands on his chest, but he persisted in kissing her, pulling on her.

Finally, she wrenched her lips away by turning her head, leaving him to spill hot breath on the broad surface of her cheek and down the slope of her neck. " _Guzma_."

While he didn't reply verbally, he eased his grip, which allowed her to regain her footing. She was able to look up at him then and found, to her surprise, a resolutely blank and passionless expression on him. She wanted to ask _what's gotten into you?_ but feared how he'd answer.

Her voice croaked, affected still by the swallowing of tears, "Where were you?"

Guzma grunted. The words out of his mouth were grumbled and baritone: "You know where I was."

"I was afraid―I was afraid you weren't coming back."

While she fastened her fingers into his shirt, he showed the first flickering of emotion. His eyebrows stitched together and he seemed to study her with faint signs of pity, disgust, and regret.

She felt her nerves pinprick. "Darling… Why are you looking at me like that…?"

And as quickly as Guzma had snared and kissed her, he cooled. His hands dropped. "Look… Miss L…" He shook his head and fixed his voice to make it firm. "Lusamine. We gotta talk."

Lusamine recoiled. _Talk_? What good is talking? Talk is a tool, a dagger, a knife to be drawn over skin―she didn't want talk, she wanted silence and affirmation in the form of passive assent. _Hold me. Kiss me. I'd rather you kill me, than you talk at me._

"It's just… With everything…" His resolve to stay aloof weakened; he touched her hands and scrunched up his face with thought.

His spoken uncertainty made her lunge for him, until no space remained between them. Out of fear, she pawed at his face in an attempt at uncovering some happiness or enthusiasm, where her own face fell in despair. "What's wrong? Y-you're back. And now that you're back―everything is back to the way it was."

He snapped at her. "Why are you talkin' like it's that simple?" Though he resisted the temptation to raise his voice, his sudden frustration with her culminated in an impatient shove. Lusamine lost her footing and hold of him, and so stumbled backward, landing into a sitting position on the bed. He huffed. "Don't you got anything to say!?"

Lusamine looked up at him. He was angry. She held onto that realization for a moment― _he's angry_ ―because she couldn't quite process it. She thought… She knew why… But every time her mind nudged closer to it, it was as if she heard white noise and everything went indistinct and fuzzy.

After a while, Guzma tired of watching her squirm. "This is stupid," he bayed. "I don't know what I expected, but..." He let out an aggravated sigh and briskly tousled his hair. "Tch."

When he looked away, Lusamine's heart leaped in terror. He was drawing away again. He had only just arrived, and already, he was stepping back.

Fortunately, he didn't go far. He lingered near the window, which lay wide open from her earnest watching of the sea, and the air and light passing through it appeared to drain his temper. His shoulders slumped, and after pondering his next move, he spoke again, this time with a gravelly, dejected tone. "Anyway… I read your letter," he said. "I musta read it a million times―and I kept thinking―it's me, you're talking about me. At first I even thought, I'm the one lookin' out at the world and seeing nothing good in it… Because that's… How I felt. But it's you, right? You're the one who ain't happy… And the person you miss―that's not me, either."

She had almost forgotten the letter and its contents: her writing of it happened in a moment of weakness. And though she sent it, she couldn't remember the purpose of its composition, nor what she expected the result to be―what could she expect? She certainly didn't think he'd turn into an inspired interpreter of poetry. Lusamine envisioned, in immediate terror, the intimacy of his reading of her message. He had picked it apart, line-by-line. Picked _her_ apart, uncovering unwanted things. All she could think to do was tearfully deny his discoveries, as piercing as they were. "That's not true."

Guzma wasn't moved by her denial. He shook his head, heft sinking his head past his shoulders. "I know you don't want me. And it just―doesn't make any sense, you know? Guess that's why I came back, even though…" He lost his train of thought for a moment, but steered it back sternly with a blunt, "Why do you wanna marry me?"

Thoughtlessly, she blurted, "I need you."

"Why do you―!" He spun around and turned on her; his frustration bubbled up again. "You just say stuff, you don't mean half of what you say! It's just what you think I wanna hear, or what you think's gonna hurt me the most―why can't you just be honest? Why can't you tell me the truth?"

Truth? How could he want truth? Lusamine knew what truth was: truth was a cancer, a limp leg before a hungry predator, a guillotine. All good things end with truth, and she had learned that, stroke by stroke, and run from it ever since. Lie, and get what you want; lie, and people won't see what you are. That he didn't understand this baffled her. She thought she had found a kindred spirit in this boy who knew how to switch affect and pretend to be grown up.

Guzma must have read her resistance, because he became despondent. "I don't―!" He clenched his fists and confessed, "I don't know what to do. If marrying you would make you happy―I'd do it, but..."

She scrambled, falling into him and tugging on his jacket. Her protests became petulant, whiny. "But it will! My sweet, beautiful boy―"

Slipping. He was slipping away, immune to her cries, and between her shuddering gasps for breath, he twisted, transforming again into a faceless, wordless back. His stature became an undefeatable wall, into which she could pour every sob and plea to no avail. She lost it: she lost sight, and taste, and touch. All she could do was claw at the fabric, muscle, and bone of his back, batter him with her fists, beg.

"Don't you get it? You're all I have left."

"I'll do anything. Anything."

"Please."

"I don't want to be alone."

* * *

"Then perhaps you ought to treat people better."

The wall was gone.

(No… Something wasn't right).

The voice came again, causing her to lift her head from the bed-sheets.

"What do you expect! It's a grisly chore to be around you! Is it any wonder people flee the first chance they have?"

When Lusamine sat up, she found her hands tightened into knots in her blanket and pillows resting at her back. Her Bewear growled and adjusted its head, pushing its white muzzle into her lap, and she encircled her arms about its neck cloyingly.

When she searched out the source of the voice, she found it immediately: standing toward the doorway, hands on his hips, breath puffing with anger, Faba had at last lost every thread of patience he'd ever held.

"You are a little girl," Faba ranted, "that pries the head off her dollie and proceeds to cry about it. Do you think my sympathies inexhaustible? Do you think I can't tire of feeling sorry for you, when you inevitably bring these things on yourself?"

It had been, what, four, five days now? Lusamine tried to remember, but her perception of time had clouded. She knew, though, the cause of Faba's rage: since Guzma left, everything… Everything started to fall apart at the seams, and she couldn't bother to try fixing it. _Let it all sink,_ she said. _Let the ocean swallow us all up, if this is what fate has in store for me._

Faba had no more time for her self-pity, which is why he now marched to her room to deliver an impassioned scolding. She cried―pathetically, weakly, as a child cries when caught in its sin.

Faba's face, normally a bleak color, had turned a fervid red, but despite his anger, he had yet to approach the bed. The presence of her Bewear, who coddled and soothed her with its nose and paws, seemed to serve as an effective deterrent to any looming. "With Mohn gone―you took your pound of flesh from me. That's for certain. And I happily gave it." Faba lifted his hands up, in a stereotypically exasperated gesture. "But when your children left! I could hardly stomach it―watching your tears and pouting, as if it was all unfair. A blind idiot could have told you they were profoundly unhappy! What excuse can you possibly have for not preventing it!?"

She wiped the streaks of moisture from her face and tried to speak, but he wasn't done.

"And the boy―! Don't get me started―What did you think would happen? Even a masochist like him was doomed to tire of your antics eventually!"

"But I didn't mean it," she said. Her voice croaked, hoarse from disuse. As she sniveled, she drew up her legs, pushing aside her pokemon for a moment to clasp her arms about her knees and weep. "I didn't mean any of it―he must know that―"

Faba snorted unkindly. "Whatever you said―or more likely, _did_ ―to make him run for the hills, one thing is for certain, Madame: what you're saying now would be a _poor comfort_ for him."

"I know... I know..."

As Faba was not used to his lectures being left so unchallenged, he frowned down at her. She had crumpled into a frail heap of unkempt hair and neglected limbs. "Ugh." He stroked his beard, barely containing his disgust. "...Pity yet to spare, I suppose… Hmph. I just wish your father were here to see what a mess you've made. What vindication he would feel."

"Don't―!" A slice of hatred broke through her grief. "Don't―you bring my father into this!"  
"Well, why shouldn't I? I know exactly what he'd say, if he saw how you've run this place into the ground. 'This is what comes of placing a woman in a position better suited for a man'-"

"Shut up!"

Faba scoffed at her indignation. "Don't you have any shame at all? Sitting around, moping and crying―over a boy no less―letting your professional responsibilities fall by the wayside! After all that energy you expended to become president!"

"You don't know what I've suffered," she said. Her sobs had reduced to snivelling. "If you knew what I've suffered, you'd understand―"

"Please," Faba growled, lacking all sympathy, " _spare me_."

She collapsed, until her face smeared tears into her tangled sheets; she wrenched apart the fabric between her fingers.

As he watched and pondered her, he stroked his beard. "Don't get me wrong; you're not the only one at fault. Mohn had plenty of admirable attributes," he concluded, "but he wasn't perfect."

Faba may as well have uttered heresy; Lusamine bristled.

"He let you get away with too much. He spoiled you."

"You―! You had better watch what you say!" In a weary, flailing motion, Lusamine threw her hand out toward the nightstand, hoping to grab hold of a ready projectile. Her Bewear shuffled backward and out of her personal space while releasing short, concerned grumbles.

Faba knew what she was doing (he'd been on the receiving end of enough of her rages to recognize each of her methods), but he didn't budge or show the slightest fear. He folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow to complete his scrutinizing look.. "I shall speak as I please, Madame―especially if it's the truth."

She ceased looking for an item to launch at him and instead stiffened upright on the bed.

"It's time I spoke clearly to you. If the boy returns…"

"He will."

Her certainty annoyed him; he winced. "... _If_ he returns―and I _pray_ he doesn't―and if you do marry him, then you've truly given up, haven't you?"

Afte hearing him say that, Lusamine stared at him with uncomfortable directness. She saw it, then: bags under his eyes. The beginnings of crow's feet at the rims of his cool blue eyes. She saw age. Weariness. While she had escaped the effects of time by running to every therapy she could, he had limped ahead, enduring the curse of thinning hair and lost vitality. In twenty years, Faba had changed. Chalk it up to life experience or her tutelage, but there was no denying he was no longer the cowed, timid creature she first hooked her claws into. He had adapted into a socially-accepted misanthrope who could be excused for not enjoying social events and bringing his employees to tears during their evaluations. Lusamine had always calculated time as an enemy, and yet in some ways, it was on his side. It made him more self-assured and cruel. Almost svelte.

Yet… Yet… Underneath, he was well-preserved. In twenty years, his mindset hadn't evolved.

He interrupted her wandering train of thought. "And so, to my mind," he said, "what connects me to this place is gone."

"What are you saying?" She didn't expect it of herself, but she started to panic.

"And here I thought you'd see this coming," he grumbled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm putting in my notice."

Faba might as well have pulled her beating heart from her chest; as impulsively as a gasp, she cried out, " _No._ " In a dizzy stupor, she brought herself up onto her knees, bed-sheets still tangled up about her legs. "No, no, you _can't_."

"Oh, I most certainly can," he countered hotly. Her melodrama did not soften his approach. "Contrary to what you might think, this is not a slave colony!"

"But you're my branch chief." She said it like she believed the words to be an incantation. " _Branch chief. My branch chief._ "

"I admit the title grew on me, but to hold it―at the cost of watching you cobble together a freakish life for yourself! All the expense of your dignity―and his memory―! No, no, there's only so much I can allow myself to endure."

Lusamine felt her throat turn to dry ash. That last, tiny drop of moisture left… And it was going to vanish.

She swooned.

"Please," she said, tears springing back and collecting at her chin. "Please, don't make me choose."

Faba squinted at her, as if he didn't fully believe her whimpering to be genuine.

That he seemed to doubt her pain made it all the worse. She buckled over. Her head throbbed with a pain as intense of an iron piercing it; for a blinding second, she couldn't see or think, but grabbed her skull and held her breath, counting down. But just as far as everything stabbed into her, there came with it a wave of rapture.

Because she remembered.

Of course she loved Mohn first, and he became beasts, and the beasts became Guzma, and in her mind, the three swirled together, her lover-husband-monster. But between her and the three, there had always been the connective tissue that was Faba. He had become mixed up in her amalgamated love, to the point of error, to the point of an ill-fated night during which neither of them had been themselves.

Over the years, she came to mythologize that night, imagining touches and breaths that hadn't happened, exaggerating the duration, passion, and meaning. And though she teased him with it, and he seemed adamant about pretending not to remember it, privately, she nursed it. Kept the memory shut deep inside herself, where it passively grew, its tendrils sticking out unnaturally at times, until she couldn't stand it. And on lonely nights when thinking about Mohn proved too painful, and Guzma far too abstract and frightening, she would retreat into that one, solitary moment suspended in impossibility. It drove her mad. The conscious part of her knew it was a cocktail of chemicals striking through her neural fabric which inspired these feelings, but biology wins over spirit, doesn't it? It always wins―

"Don't go." She continued to sob, and her toes curled just a bit as salacious thoughts slipped in unbidden. The words that followed came from her gut, like sickness. "I love you."

* * *

Faba sputtered haltingly for some time. If there was a chair or table available to him, he would have leaped onto it for effect, but in lieu of such a gesture, he threw his hands into the air and shrieked violently. " _What in God's name is wrong with you_!?" He was hopping mad, close to the point of actually, literally hopping. "That isn't rhetorical―I'm in fact deathly eager to know _what_ has happened to your brain to cause to think that I'd be swayed by that drivel!" After clapping a hand to his head, he further decried, "Now I'm wondering if you're serious, and I can't decide if that's even worse! Ay-ye!"

She'd said the wrong thing. Felt the wrong thing. Nothing worked anymore. She beat her fists on the surface of her bed and wailed. "Don't you feel anything? Can't you? We are inextricably―"

He barked, interrupting her. "You―!" He then calculated his choice of words with mad ferocity, and concluded: "Are a _revolting_ woman!"

This time, Lusamine was able to grab the glass and hurl it across the room. It smashed into the wall where Faba had stood, bursting in an explosion of twinkling, crystalline light.

But Faba wasn't there anymore.

In her madness, she thought, for a moment, that the shattered glass had evaporated him. That her anger had turned him into air.

But no.

Faba was gone. Her Bewear had gone, too.

She looked about. Her head felt heavy. The room remained silent and empty.

Where was Guzma?

That's right. Guzma left. He's still on Mele'mele.

 _No… Wait..._

 _I've confused things. This… is out of order_ , she suddenly thought.

At first, she thought made no sense. Out of order…?

But it crept into her mind again: _out of order. This was before. This was before Guzma came back to me. He came back. And he held me―I remember it now―_

The realization fell on her like a mountain.

She was remembering.

And these were not mere static images sitting in her brain, nor passively stored histories, no, no. These memories were being projected into her with the force of a plunging syringe. Something, someone, was forcing her to relive these moments.

And when she had that thought, the scene before her began to sizzle and curl like burning paper. Color disintegrated. Ooze fell from the walls. A thick rope of phlegm struck her shoulder, and she cried out in horror, lifting her eyes to the ceiling quick enough to see the gaping mouth again, its circlets of razored teeth clacking greedily for her. Faba was gone. Guzma was gone. Her husband-her children―the bedroom, the sea, her father, grief, love, everything, all smashed into tiny pieces, until they flew into the dark like cosmic dust.

* * *

Face-first, in the dirt. She grabbed a handful of soil, but couldn't move.

 _He was right, you know._

She twisted her eyes shut. "I'm not listening."

 _Faba's always right; that's what's so irritating about him_.

With great effort, Lusamine stood up, whatever that meant in this empty place. There was nothing but blackness surrounding them, only Lusamine and her beast. The Nihilego had warped, its innocent white-blue since maintaining its sharper, darker form. It hovered a few feet from her, and had also grown countless eyes in its surface flesh, each of them glossy from mucus and bulging in her direction with accusing stares.

Rage filled up inside her chest. "You cheated!" She flew her fists at it, but wildly missed. "It's not fair!"

 _I hardly think it's tantamount to cheating._

"You put them in the wrong order! And you cut away―you took away the rest of it, just when―!"

 _You're imagining things._

"I remember what Guzma said, right afterward," she went on. She wracked through the painful strands of memory but found it again. "He said that he loved me."

 _Oh, I think I'd remember something as unbelievable as that._

"He said we'd be a family."

 _What trite, sentimental rubbish. Did he really say that?_

"Why show me this? Why show me this when you're just going to cheat…?"

 _To prove a point: everything you touch―everything you care about, or love, or desire―withers and rots when you grab hold of it._

.

She had no words to rebut its claim, so she resorted to fists and screams, launching them at the Nihilego's bell and landing hard. The first few full-force blows did nothing except cause an exceptional clamor, like it was made of iron, but as she grew angrier, the transparent bubble buckled, cracked, and then shattered. Inside its head, she could see and hear a howling, hollow chasm, and as she looked inside that endless well of a void, the Nihilego, not dead, spoke again.

 _See? You're like us, Mother._

 _Look_.

The Nihilego passed its tentacle through her. Her skin rippled like a shadow, and as it curled and shred away, she could see what was underneath. No muscle, no bone, no organs. Only blank space.

 _Nothing_ , Nihilego pointed out.

.

And it went on like that: an endless song with a single note.

Nil. Null. Non. Naught. Nothing. 0000000ỖỗộỚớỜỮỢỠ.

.

.

 **/ delete**

 **/ / Error. Cannot delete file: access is denied**


	29. Ego Sum Nihil- MemoryDisc6: Quintessence

**/ /Memory recovery at 100%**

 **/ /Compiling final data packet…**

 **/ /Resume execution file**

* * *

 **/ /RUN: Memory_Disc_6: Quintessence**

 **/ "Can we outrun the heavens?"**

* * *

The morning the wedding ceremony was supposed to have taken place, a rattling noise erupted from Lusamine's suite. The door swung open, clanging on its hinges, and slowly, unsteadily, she stepped out. She teetered forward until she landed against the far wall, and she turned her head down the open hall, spotting two grunts goofing around. They, in seeing her, immediately squeaked like cat-stalked mice and hurried back into their quarters.

She went outside and stumbled for the guard railing.

She glowered at the hissing sea. With time, she started to walk again, but her heels confounded her in her current condition, so she held onto the railing with one hand and stooped down to grapple her shoes with the other. One heel came off; she chucked it overboard. The other took a little more negotiating, but with a curse or two, she pried the second shoe off, as well, and hurled it out into the water. She watched the breathtakingly expensive article tumble down, sucked up by the treading water in a fraction of a second.

To her right, a voice asked, "Rough night?"

When she lifted her head, pushing the bangs from her face, she saw Nanu standing a few yards away. He was slumped over the railing, balancing his form on his elbows and smoking a cigarette. He stuck out against the bright morning colors, dressed in simple black slacks and his usual flip-flops and red undershirt. All that he lacked was his officer's jacket, which must have been stowed in his suite. The look on his face communicated indifference touched, only slightly, with a bit of amusement.

Lusamine, rather than granting him the pleasure of annoying her, gazed back at him. She thought it over and soon decided to limp to his side. She came within arm's reach, but no closer, before stopping and saying, "Cigarette."

"Pardon?"

She did not repeat herself.

Nanu removed the package from his pants pocket and smoothly extracted the cigarette. He kept his eyes on her as he handed it over. "Didn't know you smoked."

"I quit fourteen years ago."

Without any prompting, he got her a light. Barefoot and harried, she dipped the cigarette into the flame, brought it to her lips, and took in as much of the fumes as she could, allowing them to burn her eyes, throat, and mouth. A flash of pain, then relief, came across her expression, and Nanu couldn't help but snort.

"Remembering why you quit, huh?"

Lusamine's eyes slipped shut. "It's a filthy habit," she said, before bringing the cigarette back to her mouth.

A pleasant breeze passed over the two as they smoked and stayed silent. Nanu certainly didn't pressure any chatter, so she felt free to puff and gaze out on the waves, which rippled with late morning's light. At the farthest distance, in the form of pinpoint shadows on the horizon, she could see evidence of the islands; she wondered, absently, about the course the boat was currently taking.

Over the rush of water and wind, a distant thumping sound emerged. She tilted her head. "That noise…"

Nanu grunted. "Oh, that's just what the young folk today call _music_. I'd be lying if I said it grows on you."

The words fell on her brain, but it took several seconds for her to untangle their implication. She said, still threadily, "Young… people."

Emboldened by her sudden urge to talk, Nanu rambled, "Yeah, Team Skull is still on the boat. Your kids, too. It's a bit of a free-for-all; I'm just trying to stay out of it." The kahuna took a moment to think on his next move. He eyed her as she leaned against the railing. "So." He swallowed. "Looks like the wedding's a bust. You want my number, or you wanna gimme yours?"

She turned, smoke whipping from her face, eyes dim and void of any emotion. She spoke without malice. "I find you utterly repulsive."

He nodded slowly. "...That's a no, then. Eh. Worth a shot."

She couldn't process his humor, as inappropriate as it was. In her stomach, a sourness wormed its way in, churning through her gut. Memories of dreams that had faded in waking came back to her, like cruel needlepoints fixing to her skin, and she felt crushed from the top down. She wanted to throw up, jump into the sea, and burst into tears all at once. She started acting upon these impulses by pressing herself against the railing, nearly pushing her torso above the top rail, but it wasn't as if she had the strength to actually fling herself across. She did successfully look ill, though, which made the kahuna step back and mutter his surprise.

"Uh… lady? You all right?"

The cigarette, which had up until now haphazardly balanced between her fingers, dropped down the side of the boat, mimicking the trajectory she currently craved. She spat at him as one of her feet began pushing against the lower rail, treating it as a step upward. "I don't need your pity."

"You're drunk," he declared, and before she had a chance to counter his claim, he grabbed her arm and sternly pulled her back. "You crazy bint. Quit monkeying around 'fore you end up in the water."

She could have slapped him. Would have, if doing so didn't threaten to knock herself off balance and onto the ground. She whirled with a wildness, wrenching her arm from his grip, and nearly screamed her retort. "And what if I did! Would it even matter?"

He scoffed. "Well, I ain't jumping in after you, if that's what you're asking."

Lusamine, for a scrambled second, didn't know how to respond to that. She shook, wobbled on her feet, and barely held herself up with one hand on the railing. She turned her back toward him, hoping to hide the pain wrinkling her expression, but the words blubbering from her lips disguised nothing. "And why should you? You'd be doing everyone a favor."

In her mind, she mistook her self-loathing and dramatics for humility, for a genuine show of remorse. Indeed, somewhere in there, guilt oozed from pores and blackened her spirit. If only one lesson remained from her visions, it was that she had nothing to offer, and fate had made it clear she was never to be happy (and certainly didn't deserve to be). But her bawling still had the cloying, begging quality, meant to draw out pity.

Nanu was too old and too cynical to fall for it. He dragged out a sigh, milking its length. "Okay," he finally said, expressly unimpressed. He muffled the rest of his words through the cigarette between his teeth. "So we're doing this, I guess. What is it? What's eating you?"

"How can you ask that!?" Lusamine flung herself around, shouting with all the strength she could summon. Her fist banged on metal. "And… Why―why would I say anything to you? I know… what they think of me. What you think of me!"

Nanu scratched the inside of his ear absently. "Lady, I don't think anything about you. I barely know you."

"You…" Lusamine finally faced him, at first thinking he was mocking her. But she found, to her surprise, that he seemed genuinely baffled by her accusation. "It―doesn't matter. I'm not about to―" She started stammering and hated herself for it. She injected as much venom and disdain in her voice as she could. "T-to lay out my sins in confession before some _holy man_ ―!"

The sound of his grating laughter carried out along the deck; despite her shooting him a nasty look, he persisted in wheezing, chuckling, and thumping his chest. "'Holy man!'" He wiped a tear. "Shoot. They'll sell anything to tourists these days. I might be a kahuna, lady, but I ain't holy. Not by a long-shot."

At that, a silence fell over them. Lusamine pondered a way to slink off without saying much more; she had no interest in starting a real conversation, and expected him to feel the same way. So she angled her herself back toward the living suites. At this rate, going back to bed would be the most productive thing she could do.

But suddenly, Nanu's gruff, uneven voice barked at her. "Hey."

Not used to being greeted in such an abrupt, rude manner, she slowly turned towards him.

"Thinking on it now―" She saw him tapping his flip-flopped heel on the wooden deck. "You and me, we've got quite the interesting connection. Small world."

She thought she was being flirted with again; she narrowed her eyes at him. "I beg your pardon?"

In typical, slothful fashion, Nanu slid himself around until he leaned his back on the railing. His elbows rested on both sides of him, and he cocked his head with a curious bent. "Hmph. You never bothered looking into me, did you?"

'Looked into' him? Lusamine stared. She had never once thought of him as any more than a slovenly, reclusive, small-town officer who happened to be a local ceremonial figure. She had not given him any more consideration than she had any of the other island leaders.

"It's all right," he said. "I don't exactly stick out in a crowd. Did Interpol ever visit you? After you went public with your beast collection."

What seemed like a sudden verge in topic rattled her. She put a hand to her hip, feigning a return in confidence. "I don't see how that's any business of yours. Now what's―"

"Was it two agents? Man and a woman. Girl in purple hair; sharp-looking fella in a trench coat."

The description struck a cord. She proceeded with caution. "Perhaps. We didn't permit them to interview anyone, so I don't remember them well."

"Ah, too bad. They're old co-workers of mine. Subordinates, actually. From my time in the force." A strange, uncertain smile tugged on his lips. "Those were different times."

"You…" She could hardly believe it. She felt inclined, in fact, to think he was joking. "You worked with the International Police?"

"Oh, yeah," he drawled. "For years."

"Kahuna Nanu," she began, as she felt a creeping discomfort the more he spoke, "I don't know why you're telling me this."

"I just think it's funny―how lives cross, an' all. 'Cause, see, it was all on account of Professor Mohn. Your husband published his findings about the wormholes and beasts… What, fifteen years ago? Tell ya, his work got Interpol all hopped up, inspired them to create a UB task force. Made me lead agent."

Hearing this strange man so calmly mention Mohn made her skin crawl. A gag reflex nearly prevented her from blandly replying, "How… serendipitous."

"Yeah. It was quite the gig, back in the day. You know what we did?" He paused, not to give her a chance to guess, but to pinch the end of his cigarette and mull on a private, dark thought. "His research… for us, it just gave name to what we already knew. UB's had already been cropping up―they would appear, cause problems, put people in danger… So we tracked, and extracted."

Though she still felt his train of thought was highly suspect, she decided to oblige his story. After all, this was new information for her and relevant to her interests. "Were you successful?"

He puffed out a boastful cloud of smoke. "Extremely."

"How did you capture them?"

"Oh," he droned, lifting an eyebrow, "there was no capturing involved, ma'am."

"Then―" A thought caught in her throat. "I see. You killed them."

Nanu seemed to appreciate her ability to read through his words. He nodded agreeably. "'Neutralized.' That was the word we used. I think we thought it took the sting out of it. But anyway… Yep, every last one we found."

"I suppose… there was no way around it."

As if he hadn't heard her reassurance, he pierced the skyline with a thoughtful gaze. "I don't know what kinda research you've put into these beasts, but I imagine you've deduced what we found out, which is the buggers aren't easy to kill. We eventually figured out the best method, but it wasn't clean. Basically, you had to blow 'em apart, had to do it fast and hard, and… God. About half of the time, it wouldn't do the whole job. We'd track it down, find it, and it'd still be writhing around, mostly, but not quite…" When he stopped, she thought she was about to witness some sliver of emotion, some trembling or hesitation. But he remained steel-eyed and ghoulish, voice plain as he explained, "It got to be my job to finish them off… I got really good at it, too."

Lusamine listened politely to his impromptu confession, but she struggled to understand its significance. She looked him up and down a moment. He showed no outward regret, only looking out at the sea and dwelling on his thoughts. She shook her head. "It seems to me you were only doing as you were told."

His eyes crooked, sliding over to her. "Lady… Don't get me wrong. I've been through all that rationalizing. And you're right. It was my job. Didn't have a choice. I was doing the best I could, given the circumstances, blah blah blah, but, _shoot_. You know what I could never get over?" He pulled the cigarette from his lip and let the wind and water take it away; the lingering bits of smoke escaped his mouth shaped in a sneer, and his expression bored into hers. "I enjoyed it."

Any other man, she thought, would have looked away to say such a thing. But his callous red eyes didn't budge from hers, and all at once, she understood. He was studying her. More than an admission, he meant to measure her disgust, perhaps ascertain how much, if at all, her perception of him would change. A man who killed. A man who took pleasure in killing. Seeing him now, it was actually not too hard to visualize him ten years younger, pulling triggers and revelling in the kickback and silence.

Lusamine said nothing. And in a natural way, she felt nothing, too.

He drew back by shuffling his feet away from the railing. She couldn't tell if it was from disappointment or boredom. "You don't gotta tell me what's bothering you. But whatever it is… I can guarantee I've got you beat."

The anger she felt in that moment―against his presumptuousness, against the envious ease of his disclosure―caused her to utter, in transparent bitterness, "And yet, your society touts you as a role model for children. It just goes to show that even the worst vices are more readily excused when they're held by a man."

"Hey, sister, you've got me there." Nanu just shrugged. "What can I say? Ain't it a kick in the teeth."

Her ranting stopped there. His lack of defensiveness rendered it... unsatisfying. A part of her suspected he did this on purpose, just to irritate her.

While she simmered, he absently started patting his pants pocket, perhaps thinking about going for another cigarette. He stopped only to grumble in assent, "You got one thing over me, I'll say that for sure. You're braver than I ever was."

Lusamine blinked at him and awaited an explanation.

"I never had kids. Too afraid they'd turn out like me. You took a gamble―twice."

Being reminded of her children did not improve her attitude. She sniffed.

"Good thing is, children don't always take after their parents. Sometimes, in spite o' everything, kids turn out okay. Case in point: you're halfway to crazy-town apparently, but your kids are alright."

"Alright!?" She snarled. "Those two―!? As if you have any right―"

"I'm just _saying_ they seem normal."

After sucking in a breath and considering every flaw she could have screamed at him, she huffed. "I'm… not going to argue about my children with you."

"Nobody's asking you to."

In the distance, the music track blasting from one end of the ship switched over; this sudden change snapped her out of focus, and she turned her head, searching down the empty walkway. No one had passed since they started speaking, and this made her worry. "Where is…"

"Huh?"

"My fiance."

Nanu could have disputed her label. Instead, he answered, "Think he's over at the pool. Saw a couple people head that way. You thinking of making up, or what?"

"I have to…" She began to move. She slid over the smooth wood of the deck, and just barely avoided slipping.

Nanu noticed. "You know," he said, staring at her bare feet, "you don't have any shoes on."

"Yes." Lusamine sighed irritably. Did he think she had forgotten? "I'm aware of that."

"If you're gonna be walking around, you'll need some. Wouldn't want you to get splinters."

Lusamine didn't have time to stop him before he stepped backward, slipping his feet from his flip-flops.

"Here."

Part gobsmacked, part horrified, she started, "Oh, no, I'm not―"

"They're real comfy," he said. He kicked the cheap pieces of rubber over toward her until they lay flat and prone before her.

She imagined, for several seconds, just how long he had worn them and how many lifeforms must now reside in those sandal soles. The thought of it made her recoil. "I'm really fine."

"Don't knock 'em 'til you try 'em." Strangely insistent now, he gestured at them. "C'mon, they won't bite."

Lusamine told herself it was because she was simply too tired to fight off the kahuna. Gingerly, and with a grimace touching her expression as she did it, she complied. After sliding her toes past the red bands, she stood to rest her weight on them. They were wide for her slender shape, and they were far from flattering, but they had a freedom she was not used to. Compared to the restrictive bindings and precarious balance of high heels, these felt like air.

"Cute," he cracked.

She shot him a glare. As she examined him standing there, bare feet on the deck, she wondered if they hadn't merely shifted the problem. "I don't suppose you'll need these back."

He waved a had. "Eh. Keep 'em. I got another pair. I always buy a bunch of the same pair; lasts me for the year."

 _...A picture of the bachelor lifestyle_ , she thought. _And he's bragging about it_. Truly irredeemable.

In the bright morning light, she turned herself toward the back of the boat, past where he stood. She decided to walk. The sandals slapped loudly on the floor and against the soles of her feet, but after a few steps, she grew attuned to the sound and feel of loose footwear.

After passing him and approaching the back stairway, Nanu called out one last time.

"Hey," he gruffed, gently scolding. "Where are your manners?"

She paused and after a moment realized what he meant. "Oh." The polite, proper lady in her accepted his correction, albeit through clenched teeth. "Of course. Thank you."

Nanu's eyes sloped at first, but then he grinned menacingly. "Don't sweat it. Us old folks need to stick together."

* * *

As she went, she had to wonder.

Kahuna Nanu clearly had his theory on the whole affair. She didn't know if he believed in redemption, or whether he shrugged off the whole idea―in the brief conversation, he seemed to leaned towards the latter―but _she_ knew it was all rubbish.

What did any of it matter?

Even if she reached down inside herself, past the muck, what part of her bore to be understood? Pitied? Loved? Forgiven? In every memory she possessed, she saw her fate: always grasping, and not ever holding.

Yet as miserable as her past proved to be, her present seemed to be faring no better. At present, she remained beset on all sides by the fragments of her mistakes. A young man she had once charmed and controlled. Children she had once loved. Scoundrels she had once wielded like weapons.

Lusamine could retreat, but for what purpose? She couldn't even pretend to have dignity to save; she could only choose to perish privately, or before an audience.

So, into the public eye again.

Lusamine clomped toward the ship's swimming pool, bleary-eyed and zombified.

She regretted not asking for another cigarette.


	30. Monsters

**Chapter 30: Monsters**

* * *

Far, far away―farther than anyone on the ship could see―and behind the outline of mountains on Ula'ula Island, a stormcloud gathered at the rim of the seemingly endless sky. Across the rest of the blue dome overhead, no other clouds blemished the view, as they had been pushed away by the steady breeze of the morning. This left Gladion with very little to admire on or above the horizon; he cupped a hand over his eyes to block out the sharp sunlight, and searched the sea for signs of life, or anything. All he found were the occasional shadows of Wingulls, which had, since Team Skull started dragging foodstuff out onto the deck, begun fluttering closeby.

The music came from the opposite side of the ship. Thankfully. Gladion wasn't willing to put up with the noise this early. Last he saw, a group of grunts had turned to front of the ship into a battleground and dance floor, and spent the morning squabbling over pokemon battles, discovered liquor, snacks, and stolen goods. The dining hall had also since turned into a complete zoo. He and Lillie tried exactly once to go inside to retrieve breakfast―and immediately gave up.

Behind him, Gladion could hear a scream and a splash. He didn't turn around to investigate; he had gotten used to the raucous cries coming from the pool. But soon, the choice was taken away from him. Wet, plodding footsteps approached.

"Yo! Li'l G!"

Gladion sighed. When he turned, he found Nene dripping with pool water and dressed only in soaked black shorts, leaving his pasty, skinny, pre-teen upper body exposed to the sun. The boy was grinning and pushing back his slick, blue hair back across his scalp.

"The water's a'ight! You still ain't comin' in?"

"No thanks," Gladion answered, politely but firmly. A group of grunts, mostly boys, had thrown off their shirts and jumped in, but he had more tact than that. "I'm not sure why you're all so excited over a swim. You live on an island. Besides, there's a pool at the Shady House."

"That pool janky, though," Nene said. The grunt wasn't wrong. Team Skull had never hired anyone to maintain the pool, which led first to the water festering and turning to a green, noxious sludge, then to a crack in the foundation, which drained the water away. All that ever remained was a few inches of rancid rainwater. "This one's nice. I mean, dang, this whole _joint_ is nice. I say Team Skull oughtta take the place. 'Shady Boat,' see?"

Gladion shuddered to think what Team Skull would do it if tried to run the ship on a route by themselves. The most likely scenario he could think of ended with cannibalism.

"Well, anyway. See ya! Im'ma jump in again." With a flippant laugh, the grunt wandered back to the pool and left Gladion to reconsider the situation.

Among the swimmers, there was Lillie. For some reason he could not figure out, she had actually packed a swimsuit, so she happily swam laps. She tried at one point to encourage her Yungoos to swim along with her, but it did no more than give a few frantic paddles, panic, and scurry back onto the deck. Pokemon had, in general, come to overtake the vast open spaces: most of the trainers had released some, if not all, of their partners to play.

Gladion checked his. Silvally still paced around the perimeter of the pool, keeping a keen eye on the splashing, wrestling, screaming children. Its crest was perked but not flapping, so he could tell this was curious behavior rather than aggressive. He had no reason to worry.

When he scanned his vision toward the stairs, he found Guzma hadn't moved from the bottom of the stairwell, phone glued to his head. Though Gladion hadn't eavesdropped, he read Guzma's anxiety and anger.

Abruptly, though, the call ended and Guzma stood to his feet. He ended up skulking over to a small poolside table in the shade, landing in one of its chairs, and contemplating on something deeply. He set his eyes on nothing (and no one) in particular and stared, flipping his phone over and over again in his hand.

Gladion decided he ought to at least try his hand at intervening. The previous night, after Guzma chased his fiancee to her room, it had taken hours to calm him down enough to talk things through. And even then, not much was decided. Guzma spoke out of denial: still referred to the wedding, like it was going to happen. To her, like they were still engaged. If the phone call had unsettled him in any way, it might be a prime opportunity to shake him of his presumptions.

So he went over.

"May I sit?"

The request was overly-formal, and as such, Guzma shot him a brief, confused glance from across the table. He immediately went back to staring into dead space after grunting, "Sure; I don' care."

Gladion sat and allowed a polite length of silence to pass before interrogating him. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Oh… That? That was just…" Guzma, obviously caught off guard by the question, persisted palming and flipping his device lazily on the tabletop. "That was just Mr. Faba."

"Mr. Faba?" Gladion was stunned. "He _called_ you?"

"Uh, yeah, like twenty times last night. But my head wasn't screwed on right―didn't check my phone 'til this morning. So..."

"What'd he have to say?"

"Nothing. He saw it all on the news. So he's freakin' out, you know."

 _Faba? Freaking out?_ Gladion could indeed imagine. But he couldn't help and spot a hole in Guzma's explanation. "That must have been a ten-minute conversation."

Gladion expected to be snarled at for butting in on an adult's private concerns―because he most certainly was―but Guzma went quiet, pausing his fidgeting and even putting away his phone.

"I'm surprised you can stand to talk to him for that long."

Guzma's eyes, which had until now remained frozen ahead, finally started to move toward the younger boy. "Huh?"

"Well, he is a pompous blowhard. And massively histrionic."

"He's―" Guzma frowned. As he was not one who easily defended others, his words came out awkward and unnatural as he uttered, "Mr. Faba's alright."

"...You can't be serious."

"What?"

Despondent, Gladion crossed his arms. "He's Mother's second-in-command. Her minion. Anything she's done wrong, he's had his hand in it, too."

"I… I know that." Guzma frowned, and with an air of discomfort, he faced forward again and slouched his shoulders. "...I dunno. It doesn't seem like he's happy about it."

Gladion genuinely didn't know how to respond to such an abject expression of sympathy toward a man he had never considered sympathetic. He especially didn't know what to make of it coming from _Guzma_. He felt an impulse to start listing the man's sins: the experiments he conducted, the breaking of natural law, the assent to Mother's cruelest demands. But surely Guzma knew all these; in fact, he had only last night confessed to the experiments he had discovered in Aether's labs; so then why the twinge of pity?

(Gladion thought then about an image prominent in his memory―Lusamine's hands on Faba's throat―and then on suppressed things, which had ungrasped significance when he was young but now burgeoned with painful meaning.)

But if Gladion had inherited his mother's analytical mind, he had also inherited her inability to face uncomfortable truths. So the boy fumed, "If Mr. Faba is a victim of Mother's regime, then he's a willing one!"

Guzma, understanding, or perhaps wary of Gladion's bitterness, seemed to take his time absorbing this accusation. He finally shrugged and sucked his teeth. "...Guess he's not willing anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"He's leaving Aether."

Gladion just about toppled the table when he jumped to his feet. He even made Guzma flinch in surprise. "He's _what_!?"

"Uh..."

"That can't be right!" Gladion eyed him with ferocious suspicion. "Are you sure you didn't misunderstand?"

Guzma started to realize he had disclosed something he shouldn't have. He sniffed and slouched, mildly irritated that Gladion would suggest he was mistaken over such a simple detail. "Nah―he said 'putting in his notice,' or whatever."

"If that's true…" Gladion turned suddenly morose. He turned away, facing the joyful play of his peers as they continued splashing each other. "Then the situation at Aether must be more dire than I thought."

"Yeah… I guess… I guess he runs a lot of the place."

"It's not just that." Gladion fixed a thumb to his chin as he thought aloud. "Of anyone, Mr. Faba has the strongest reason to stay. According to his contract, his body of research is the classified intellectual property of the Aether Foundation. If he leaves, he's forfeiting access to decades of his work."

Guzma took a few moments to struggle with these new concepts, but soon came to his own judgment. "He never said… But that ain't fair."

"It's contract law. Not much to do with fairness." Gladion shrugged. "Knowing Mr. Faba, he likely has a contingency plan to ease the pain. Lusamine taught him the art of the deal; he'll find a way to gouge her on the way out." The boy sighed and pondered. "...So, that's it. Aether's really is on its last legs…"

They both went silent for a while.

Gladion hadn't expected this new pang of remorse; he didn't expect to feel sadness at the thought of the Foundation's untimely death. After all, its leaders and members had made so much of his life miserable. It had touched and corrupted almost every part of his personhood. If ever there existed a place that deserved to sink and never be recovered, to his mind, Aether qualified.

"That place… it's your family's legacy," Guzma said suddenly.

And even though Guzma was _right_ , Gladion deflected his point: "My family has a legacy all right, but it isn't Aether."

After another beat of silence, Guzma started to say, "I'm gonna… I'm gonna try to―"

A scream pealed out in the distance, cutting him off.

* * *

Since the two boys weren't in the pool, they were more ready to leap to their feet and run for the source of the outcry. A bit of additional wailing brought their attention to the second floor, and though they started to recognize the voice as they climbed the stairs, they were still unprepared for the spectacle awaiting them at the top.

It was Lusamine in a long, flowing dress, in the midst of a tug-of-war with Gladion's Silvally, which had snared a sizeable wad of her skirt in its mouth. She must have tripped only moments ago, as she was hobbling back up onto her feet and clinging to the railing. Having already screamed, she had resorted now to sharp, angry demands and flinging her free hand at it. Any slaps that landed on its head had no effect.

"Get―Get away, you horrible montrosi―let go at once, I―!"

Gladion nearly feared the worst―that the attack meant genuine danger―and so tried to reach the two of them first to call off his pokemon. But Guzma powered past him using his longer frame, charging for it with full intent of prying it off of her.

"Hey! Get offa―!"

Silvally jerked its head around, skirt still in its mouth. For a moment, it and Guzma shared gazes; the young man froze and suddenly remembered he was no match for it.

"Silvally," Gladion said, cutting through the awkward silence. "Drop it."

With an obedient shudder, it craned its neck, saw its owner, and acknowledged his command by cocking its jaw open. The cloth furled down and back around Lusamine's ankles. In her relief, she stumbled a few steps backward, nearly falling before Guzma swept in beside her, catching and fretting over her.

"Heel."

Silvally, as it often did, stood still for a second as if weighing its options. But with a snort, it reoriented itself, turning for its master and approaching for approval. As Gladion patted its head in reward for its compliance, he glanced past the beast-killer's haunches to see his mother standing pale and shock-stricken. Any part of him that might have revelled in her discomfort was overcome by sudden concern; she did not look well at all.

Guzma beat him to it by pawing at her arms and bleating, "You alright?"

She didn't answer. Just lifted a hand to maintain a small measure of personal space. Guzma backed away, visibly agitated, though he didn't look too surprised by her chilliness.

Gladion instructed his pokemon to sit and then crossed his arms to address her. "You'll have to excuse Silvally's bad manners," he said. "He wasn't trying to hurt you. He still gets preoccupied with hanging cloth―tablecloths, drapery, skirts―"

She looked _extremely_ uninterested in his excuses. She weakly motioned downward. "I― I only need to sit."

Guzma didn't need to be told twice; he hurried to her side and helped her down several steps before sitting her on the stairs. She continued to stew and shudder in relative silence, and the two boys shared uncertain glances.

"Uh…" Guzma stood close behind her. "I didn't know you were up."

No response.

Guzma's voice lowered. "You okay? You looking for me? Last night…"

As he rambled, Lusamine brought a hand to her forehead, pressed her palm against her temple in a pained gesture, and said, "Please… Be quiet."

He obeyed―though for a second, he looked cross and opened his mouth, ready to say something.

She interrupted before he could manage to speak. "Get me downstairs."

To Gladion's chagrin, Guzma didn't argue with her. No, he helped her up and attended her down the steps, holding her gently by the arm and only turning around to snap at Gladion when Silvally started pacing after them, startling her.

"Hey, maybe _control_ that thing, huh!?"

Gladion seethed. That she would appear, and suddenly Guzma jumped to her every beck and call―! And here he was hoping Guzma had grown a spine by now. Gladion brushed his bangs aside, briefly considered sniping back, then called Silvally to his side. He watched the couple go.

Near the pool, Guzma led her to a chair to sit down again and made several more insufficient attempts at starting a conversation. Lusamine seemed only to gaze out at the playing children, who themselves had started clambering out of the pool and found their attention drawn that way. None of them dared approach to cause trouble, though, so they chose to instead gawk from afar.

Guzma noticed and gave them a warning sneer.

"I'd like some breakfast," Lusamine suddenly announced.

"Huh?" Guzma whirled his head around. "Oh. Well… I can get you…"

With a heave for strength, she pulled herself onto her feet. "I can go myself," she said.

"What? Where, in the dining hall?" Guzma looked to Gladion to silently confirm his suspicion; Gladion shook his head, so Guzma continued with added certainty, "Uh, maybe you shouldn't."

Lusamine stared at him.

"...It's kinda nuts in there."

For a moment, her expression didn't change, but with the force of each of his words, her face began to contort, her eyes sharpen, her muscles lock. Finally, wearing a look of pure disgust, she growled, taking one, shaken step toward him. "I… paid good money… For the food service… And the use of this ship… So I _will_ go as I please."

Gladion, standing behind them, cut in. "There's no disputing you have the right to go, Mother. But you might also consider whether it's _wise_."

Just hearing his voice set her on edge. Her body stiffened. Gladion nearly thought she'd respond with some kind of nastiness, but she was so perturbed, she couldn't even manage _that_ , and instead shivered, trying to pretend not to have heard him. In any case, she did not absorb his advice. She turned for the path toward the dining hall and began to walk, teetering slightly as she did.

Guzma watched, then groaned. He scratched the back of his neck as he put one foot before the other, clearly indicating he meant to go with her. "Guess I'd better…"

"Wait." Gladion slid between them, his Silvally close behind. "You've had to put up with her plenty. I'll go."

Guzma hesitated, but Gladion looked very placid and certain.

"Watch Lillie," the boy said as he turned and started down the gallery.

* * *

The mother and son walked away, and Guzma, for a good second, puzzled over that last request. It had been said with clear purpose, so he looked about; the momentary domestic drama had bored the grunts back into their activities, leaving several swimmers still knocking into each other and a small group of boys resting on the ledge, speaking intently and in secret. Chops sat at the center of the cluster with his phone screen visible to all.

Guzma looked past them and saw that Lillie had emerged from the pool already. She made the short walk to a nearby chair, at which she found her towel and wrapped it about her shoulders, and paused to talk to a female grunt lounging farther away. She must have noticed his talk with Lusamine, as well as her brother's exit, but she showed no signs of concern, instead standing in the warming light of the morning in her white, slim swimsuit.

He bounced his glance, again seeing the boys. He wondered why they drew his eyes, then realized that instinct was calling him. He frowned. The boys were… A little too focused. A little too attentive to the girls across the way.

Guzma came up behind them, just in time to hear Chops say, "-Yeah, but I'm tellin' you, give it a few years―"

Without asking, Guzma reached his long, powerful arm past their shoulders and plucked the phone from Chops' hands. While the boy sputtered, Guzma caught glance of the device's contents: Pictures. Taken surreptitiously.

"H-hey, paws off, G!" Chops managed to hop onto his feet and snatch it back. "That's private!"

"What… are you doing."

"Girlspotting," one of them said.

"I know _what_ you're doing," Guzma clarified. And of course he did; he used to engage in the ritual plenty, in his day. It was an easy way to overcompensate―to fantasize openly. Anger began to creep into his voice. "But what are you _doing_?"

JJ must have caught onto what he meant. He elbowed Chops. "Homie, he's like, dating her mom. That's mad sketch."

"It ain't sketch," Chops retorted. By now, he fumbled to push his phone into his pocket and hide any other contents. "I'm a minor, so it ain't like I'm a pedo."

Unsurprisingly, his reasoning did not endear him to Guzma at all. Guzma maintained a steady glare in Chops' direction, and it took only a few seconds for the boy to mumble an excuse.

"...Whatever. I'm outta here, yo."

Chops went, but Guzma didn't spare the rest of them his irritated gaze. So, cowering, the remaining boys followed their friend away from the pool.

Guzma barely had time to feel satisfaction in running them off before a light, young voice surprised him from behind.

"Mr. Guzma?"

He almost cussed from shock, but bit his tongue quickly enough to spare Lillie a bit of language. How had she moved that fast? He spun around and saw her standing dangerously close, still speckled with chlorinated moisture and beaming with morning light. "I― ah! H-hey." He noticed her expression of concern. "Yeah? You need somethin'?"

In a delicate way, she stitched her brow and fixed her mouth into a troubled frown. "Did… You have an argument?"

Guzma realized what she was referring to when she looked after the fleeing group of boys. "Huh? Nah. It's fine."

"It must be hard," she said sympathetically, implying she didn't believe him. "They used to be your friends, and now―"

"Aw, who, them? They weren't my friends." He snorted and shoved his hands in his pockets. "They were beneath me. You know? Underlings, an' all."

His choice of words made her warm up and giggle. She put a hand to her lips in a motion that not-so-subtly echoed Lusamine's coy manner. "Oh, I see. Gladion says you were a tyrant. Is that true?"

Embarrassed by her teasing, Guzma slumped and said, "Your brother needs to watch his mouth."

Lillie didn't seem worried by his implied threat. She trotted past him and seated herself on a pool chair, delicately patting herself down with her towel. Guzma looked at her, looked at the boys disappearing around the corner, and felt the heat of the sun scorch his eyes and face. He didn't try to focus his vision on her, but sensing the boys' interest set him on edge, and seeing her sitting like that, bare-limbed, thin and pale as bone, tiny, brittle, like a porcelain doll left exposed to the world―his lungs hitched with a popping sound. "Hey, kid." He waited until he had her attention. She looked expectantly up at him, so he swallowed. "You… you should watch yourself around those guys."

Lillie pulled her ponytail to her side, beginning to wring out the water onto the deck. "Huh?"

"Just… They're trouble, okay?"

Lillie fluffed her towel back around her shoulders. She shook her head in disbelief. "They've always been nice to me."

"'Nice'?" Guzma balked at the gravely naive thought. "Guys aren't nice! Guys aren't nice to _each other_ , and they definitely aren't nice to girls."

Lillie considered his statement, but had her own retort: "Professor Kukui is nice to me."

"Yeah, but he's―he's married, and so―"

"And Master Hala. And Mr. Nanu. And Hau's always been…"

"Ugh! Look! That's different! They're old, and that kid's―I don't know. Anyway, all I'm sayin' is, just 'cause guys _act_ nice don't mean that they are. You oughta be careful."

Lillie paused to stare at him for an inordinate moment. A weak and bittersweet smile came over her face. "You sound just like Mother."

She might as well have slapped him across the face. He reeled.

While he struggled with how to respond, she got up from the chair. "She used to chide me for being too friendly with boys. She said it gives them 'the wrong idea...'? Whatever that means…"

Guzma about leaped out of his skin. "What!? No! Geez, okay―listen, you've got me way twisted here, that's not what I'm saying―!" Now beyond uncomfortable, he rustled his hair roughly with one hand. "I'm not saying _don't be nice,_ that's stupid. It's nothing you're doing wrong, okay? It's just you gotta know what guys are like. They're―they're just out for themselves, so _you_ gotta watch out for _your_ self. Got it?"

This advice saddened her. She matched her eyes with his; her dewey, emerald eyes, shone with overbearing compassion. "Do you really think people are so terrible?"

"Uh... " Guzma was taken aback. He had to furiously recalculate. "I, uh, didn't say 'people,' I said―"

Lillie, like she didn't hear him, walked to the railing overlooking the sea.

He stopped himself, considered his options, and followed her until he stood at a polite distance beside her. He kept his hands in his pockets, communicating some discomfort, but she rested the tender skin of her wrists on the metal rail. She watched the waves for a moment, consumed with such intent thought, that he dared not interrupt. In the breeze, her blonde hair, previously drenched and snarled together, began to peel into delicate, silken threads against her face. Then, she said: "Mother used to tell us how dangerous it was out in the world, and I believed her. When Gladion ran away, I was so afraid something might happen to him… And even when life got unbearable, when Mother changed… I didn't run away, because I was so sure that the world would be even more unkind. Why, when I woke up and saw Professor Burnet for the first time…! I was terrified!" She laughed and sighed. "How funny it seems now… And I've met… So many wonderful people since then."

Guzma marvelled―and fought against a surge of resentment burning his throat.

To think… That somehow, she had lived up until now spared of the knowledge he possessed. In many ways, he realized, his own life was opposite of hers: he had grown up in a self-assured culture that denied human evil, or, at best, pretended it did not have root in Alola. And by the time he was her age, that notion had been destroyed. He knew and suffered under the vices of his elders.

Lusamine hadn't lied to her, he thought. The world wasn't safe. The world had monsters.

"I'm sorry," Lillie suddenly said. "I'm being selfish. Here I am talking about myself―but I don't even know what your life has been like. For all I know…"

What was she, a mind-reader? Guzma frowned. "Uh, nah, it's fine." After scratching his ear to cover for his nerves, he glanced over her again out of the corner of his eye. She was so young. New. Untarnished. He admonished himself. "Your brother's right, ya know," he said. "You shouldn't come back to Aether. That was just me being…" He chomped down on the inside of his cheek, pondered something, then badgered, "Look, if you could do anything, go anywhere―what would you do, right now?"

She looked up at him, clearly puzzled.

"Kukui told me you wanted to travel."

"Oh…?" Lillie pursed her lips. "I… thought about it. But…"

"But, what? You want to, don't you?"

"Well, yes―"

"Then just do it!" Guzma started to puff up with emphatic zeal, startling her into silence. "You're a little kid now, but life's short. You shouldn't let this crap hold you back!" As quickly as he had been overcome with fervor, he became embarrassed and turned his head. He mumbled, "That's… what I think, anyway."

The worst thing happened then. She laughed. It wasn't an unkind laugh, or a mocking laugh, but it was bubbly, sweet, and entirely irreverent, breaking whatever seriousness he was trying to convey. She finally stopped enough to say, "I see―you're a very passionate person, aren't you, Mr. Guzma?"

"Uh…"

"That's how you got to have so many followers, I suppose."

Guzma wasn't sure he liked her speculating on his past, but begrudgingly accepted, "Yeah, sure… I guess."

"Anyhow," she said, changing the subject with an expertise that must have come from her mother, either by genetics or direct instruction, "I'm going to get dressed. Will you wait for me?"

"...Wait for you?"

"We'll talk more, okay? I'll be right back!"

As she scurried off toward the living suites, Guzma stood uncertainly where she left him. He didn't know what to make of her request, but he didn't have a good reason to rebuff it.

It wasn't like he had other plans.

* * *

Just as Gladion expected, the situation within the dining hall had not improved since earlier that morning. His mother walked well ahead of him, seemingly happy to pretend not to notice his following, and so she had to face the chaos before he caught up. He found her frozen near the entrance, looking over the mess:

Most tables had been upturned. Paint slathered the walls, decorating them in familiar Po Town tags. Garbage had been left strewn across the floor in the form of empty bottles, dirty dishes, and broken glass. The kitchen staff, to appease the crowd of ravenous, hungry children, had laid out an array of breakfast foods and drinks, but were quickly rewarded for their professionalism by being pelted with pastries and jeered at. The workers now were nowhere to be seen, no doubt cowering behind the locked kitchen access door. This left breakfast to be run by the masses of teens and pre-teens sitting in tight circles at the center of the hall. Naturally, then, most of the food had ended up on the floor, trampled, half-eaten then discarded, thrown against walls, or left scattered on dirty tabletops. The serving table looked like a warzone.

Gladion, with Silvally close behind, approached Lusamine's side. She didn't so much as twitch.

For a miniscule moment, he thought the two of them might be sharing a feeling of annoyance. He didn't have any more patience for juvenile foolishness than she did.

"Well," Gladion finally said, sounding resigned, "Why don't you sit? I'll see if I can find anything that's been left unscathed."

Lusamine said nothing. At first he thought this meant a refusal to accept his offer. But she eyed a nearby, mostly in-tact table near the front entrance and chose to seat herself there.

A tiny bit of tension melted. Gladion felt his shoulders relax. "Silvally," he ordered, turning to meet its cool silver eyes, "stay here and watch her." (He meant this to imply that she might need defending―or perhaps, the grunts might need defending from _her._ )

Silvally grunted, shivered with anticipation, and squatted, seating itself on the floor by its haunches.

Gladion crossed the room, ignoring the various staring grunts. He didn't feel like talking. Not to say he ever did. But especially not now.

He took two plates upon deciding he might as well eat something, too. After a bit of poking around, he was able to uncover some plain, unsullied croissants, as well as fruit that pickier grunts had pushed aside in search for more sweet, doughy confections. Several tin pots contained coffee, which the grunts had also largely neglected, but with both hands full, he would have to come back for it.

"Hey, Glad."

The familiar voice reached him from above. He looked up and found Plumeria, arms crossed over the upstairs railing and eyes curious. She donned a black cap (her own) and a fancy coat and jewels obviously stolen from a former wedding guest.

"Finally decided to show?" She smiled wryly as she said this, but there was a hint of hostility to it, like she knew he was avoiding her.

Gladion felt his patience withering already. He looked up at her with professional calm. "Good morning."

A few bandana-covered heads peeked over the railing beside her. Her closest crew. Bully, humbled and bruised in the face, stood the farthest back from the edge. With a smack and pop from her sweet-melon bubblegum, Plumeria flicked her hair and started for the stairway connecting the two floors; by the time Gladion was satisfied with his plates and turned to head back for the table, she reached him and stopped him.

"Where you goin'? You've been ducking me since last night. Can't we talk?"

He paused, sighed, and turned around again. He looked put upon. "What do you want to talk about?"

That was when she noticed the plates in his hands and flitted her eyes over to where Lusamine sat. She deduced―and frowned. "You're fetching food for her? Why?"

"She's hungry," Gladion said, implying that it bore no other explanation. "Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

Plumeria sucked her teeth in annoyance. "Don't get smart. What's the deal? Joined the President's Masochist Club or what?"

Gladion noticed some grunts creeping up to Lusamine to start an exchange. He shifted his feet, readying himself to call Silvally for intervention if he needed it. "You've already disrupted the wedding and humiliated her; I'm not sure why you need me to pile on."

"'Pile on'?" Plumeria sputtered and scoffed. She put her hands to her hips and needled his expression with a foul look. "Don't tell me you feel sorry for her."

"It's not―" Gladion realized then he didn't want to argue with her, especially not about his own mother. He exhaled sharply. "My feelings on the matter are unimportant, obviously."

"Two minutes around her and you go mealy-mouthed again," Plumeria complained, not completely without reason. It had taken him two years to learn to speak more bluntly, and the very atmosphere around Lusamine brought out his old oblique, evasive speech patterns. When Plumeria saw the vexation in his face, she asked, "What are you in a snit for, anyway?"

"I just..." Gladion grit his teeth. "I wish you had conferred with me first."

When she realized what he meant, she looked around at her work―the grunts, the pokemon, the havoc being wrecked―and guffawed. "What? Like I gotta ask your permission?"

"I would have liked some forewarning, at least."

"You're sore about _that_? Look, I stopped the wedding, didn't I?"

"Fine, but what's your plan now?"

"I don't know." She shrugged and examined her nails lazily. "Hang out. Do what we want. Push that woman overboard, at some point."

He knew it was a joke, but Gladion couldn't stop himself. He gripped the two plates in his fingers and asked, "Why exactly do you hate my mother?"  
Even though he didn't ask it in an accusing way, Plumeria still gaped and grimaced at him. "Uh―? Why _wouldn't_ I?"

"I'm not saying she's undeserving of hatred. I just wonder why your distaste for her is so personal. She's done… Many things. But what has she done to you in particular?"

"You think I haven't made it crystal clear!? She used us! She used me and my kids!"

A slice of resentment―an old hurt, an old memory of betrayal that he tried to overlook―made him grumble, "You didn't complain when the money was rolling in."

* * *

Before Plumeria answered that, and in fact shortly before they began talking at all, Lusamine had to bear with her own misadventure.

Because she didn't wish to expend the energy needed to fight her son off, she chose― _chose_ ―to tolerate his attendance. She even tolerated the presence of that cobbled-together monster, which she could barely conceive as alive, and which for now sat with cold eyes digging into hers. Lusamine put her hands on her lap, measured its size, and felt the threadiness of her pulse increase the longer it gazed upon her.

Faba had been very clear with her about the creature's failings: untrainable, he said. Dangerous. Non-responsive to discipline, non-social, irreparably aggressive. The decision to have it and its counterparts cryogenically frozen and stored until further notice had been inspired by his and other scientists' characterizations. Surely, a shambling monster without soul or conscience deserved no other existence.

It had served as quite a shock, then, to witness Gladion ordering it around and daring to leave it unsupervised.

The creature tilted its head at her and flapped its head-feathers.

She sucked in a breath and looked away. If it was about to leap and murder her, she would rather it come as a surprise.

By not focusing on her freakish guardian, she was able to observe some of the shenanigans of the grunts. The group remained too far away to pose any threat, though plenty of them paid rapt attention to her. They gawked and chewed and watched, like she was a zoo animal on display. But when it became apparent she was not going to dance for them like some trained ape, their interest scattered. The boys and girls had evidently finished eating, as whatever morsels remained on their plates were being chucked in the air for entertainment, with their Zubats and other flying pokemon swooping through the air to attempt catching them. The rest, though, had settled down for the most part, slouched over their phones or posing for pictures.

Just when she thought they would continue to ignore her, though, a few younger grunts broke off from the cluster to creep toward her. A boy and a pair of twin girls. They looked wary, both of their fellow grunts and Gladion, shifting their eyes and trying to look inconspicuous (and failing). The twins stuck together like glue, but the boy trundled some paces ahead of them and appeared the most intent on spying on her. Eventually, they placed themselves up against the table where she sat. They stood in a row, not speaking, but rubbing their eyes and blinking at her.

She hoped by sitting still, staring straight ahead, and saying nothing, she might cause them to wander away again and leave her in peace. However, some unspoken desire was on their mind, and they were not about to leave without expressing it.

The boy, crusty-faced from poor sleep, had a sleek Alolan Meowth wiggling in his arms. It began to paw and claw at the tablecloth while he looked her over and blurted, "Hiya, miss."

At a slow, creeping pace, she turned her head for him.

"Hey," the grunt said again. He had started to lose his nerve and had to repeat his greeting. "H… Hey, we was wonderin' something… Ain't there a cake, miss?"

Her voice was faint and thin. "...Cake?"

"Yeah, like a weddin' cake. Ain't there one? 'Cuz, we was wonderin', I mean, if you ain't usin' it…"

Somewhere in the fog of her mind, she came to recognize that look in his face: the hopelessly stupid, vacant look of a child who didn't comprehend his surroundings. She might fancy the grunts enemy invaders, and Plumeria might even think of them in that way, but the foot-soldiers didn't understand this. They were toddling babes, begging for something sweet.

An image flashed in her memory: big-eyed, lip-licking, entreating faces, chubby fingers tugging on her dress, lisping voices against tiny teeth.

Before she allowed the image to pass, she spoke in an overwrought, saccharine tone. "...Oh, darling. You mustn't eat cake for breakfast. You'll give yourself a tummy ache."

The boy clammed up and blushed, and his female companions sniggered at his discomfort. "Yeah!" One girl elbowed him hard. "Watch your _tummy_ , Buzz."

" _Shut up_!"

Because the children turned to one another to bicker, she thought they might leave her be. But instead, after a few seconds of squabbling, they moved from behind the table to draw even nearer. Lusamine lifted her elbows in an attempt to shrink away from them, but her maneuvering didn't deter them at all; they persisted arguing with each other while crowding around her.

"I'm Buzz."

Lusamine had to whip her head around to find the boy staring slack-jawed in her direction. She awaited further context for his sudden announcement, but when none came, she said, "Oh, is that right?"

His Meowth finally freed itself from his arms and fell to the floor, and he folded his arms over his chest. "Uh-huh." He pointed at the girls rather rudely. "An' that's Tiny and Trixie."

"Yo!" The twin on the left pouted. "Why you gotta spill like that?"

Lusamine decided that if she was going to be trapped here, between babbling, rude children, she might as well _try_ to tame them with some semblance of adult conversation. She eyed the attendant creature from where it sat; Silvally still trained its eyes on her and them. "If you're going to introduce yourself, you ought to use your real name."

The boy blinked slowly at her. "Huh?"

"Your parents didn't christen you 'Buzz,' did they?"

"What'sit matter?"

Lusamine was taken aback, but only a little. The boy didn't ask with a hint of rudeness; he appeared genuinely confused.

Then, before she could think of an answer, one of the twins pestered her. "Hey, miss. Do you wanna know what they be callin' you?"

"...I have a sneaking suspicion that I don't."

"It ain't bad!" the girl cried out insistently. She put her hands on her hips to show her seriousness. "Promise!"

"Yes, yes, very well," she surrendered, but only because they were starting to close in around her. She nervously adjusted herself to sitting at the edge of the chair, in case she needed to extricate herself. The other twin dared to take hold of a lock of her hair, and she had to deftly tug it away. "Now, don't―"

"Momma G," the girl announced. "I dunno who started it, but that's what they call you since last night―"

"Your hair's pretty."

"I can do a handstand. With one hand even! You wanna see?"

"Can I braid it?"

"'Cuz―well, we got Big G, and Li'l G, see?"

While the three children began talking over each one another, whizzing comments and questions past her, she felt her frustration peak. One last time, she pulled her hair away from greedy fingers and prepared to scold them with matronly ferocity.

But that was when Plumeria found her response to Gladion's cutting remark, and the noise caught everyone's attention. There was a smash of a plate onto the floor, right where Plumeria's hand had smacked it out of Gladion's. Loud, spiteful cursing echoed through the dining hall, and after a few seconds of breathless watching, the pink-haired girl finished her rant, hiked up her fancy coat, and upon seeing the grunts at Lusamine's side, cussed them out, too.

"Whatta you dummies doing! She ain't your mommy!"

Plumeria continued to upbraid them until they pouted and slinked away, retreating to another corner.

With that, the Team Skull boss stalked back up the stairs and disappeared.

* * *

Gladion stood still for a few moments but mostly took Plumeria's tantrum in stride. He left the ruined plate on the floor and brought her the one in his other hand. He made no comment when he reached her table. He just put the plate down and put his hand to his chin, seeming to ponder something.

Lusamine had been so entertained by the spectacle that she broke her vow of silence. " _My_ ," she declared, pulling the small plate before her. "You always did have a way with girls."

He snapped to attention, surprised by being addressed. Her comment succeeded in irritating him, at least―he tried to suppress his eyeroll, but she noticed.

Lusamine tore a croissant in half with her fingers and picked at it delicately. She found herself too nervous to properly eat, so she nattered, "I had high hopes for her, once. But she's an awfully rude young woman."

"She's stubborn, haughty, and self-righteous," Gladion replied. He eyed her sternly. "Sound familiar at all?"

Lusamine ignored his jab and produced her own. "It just goes to show that good breeding can go to waste."

Gladion chose silence over retaliation, and she enjoyed its sweetness between bites of bread and fruit. He retreated only to retrieve two cups of black coffee and set them down on the table. His quiet manner as he took a seat across from her could be interpreted as coldness, she thought, but it occurred to her that the way he sat―eyes averted at a polite angle, back straight, hands on his lap―made her remember all the training she had done on him. _Silence is golden_ , she used to tell him when she could not bear to hear his voice. Perhaps he had taken that lesson and others to heart.

He had grown in those two years.

Lusamine spent only a moment pondering this, because Gladion cast a glance over at his sitting pet and saw its eager fidgeting. He asked it, "Are you hungry?" and it yapped, pushing itself upright on its hind legs.

Gladion took one more trip, then, this time returning with a handful of creampuffs rescued from the decimated serving area. He sat again, leaned back, and readied a puff; Silvally chuffed and bounced on its front claws, preparing to spring. Then, a puff flew. Silvally threw itself upright and caught the food easily easily in its jaws, then swept it into its mouth with its parrot-like tongue.

Lusamine found she wasn't as hungry as she thought, so she was distracted, and from a modest distance, she watched as the boy and monster played their game. Their interaction was so astonishingly… innocent. More akin to a child and a puppy, than a teenager and his chimeric lab experiment. (She mulled to herself on the details she'd once read on its last rampage―the employees' severed fingers, broken bones, and slashed flesh. That no one died had been a miracle).

The last puff, Silvally missed; it snapped its jaws in mid-air, the pasty bounced off its nose, and it had to sniff and search the floor to recover it.

"How―?"

Gladion turned his head in surprise.

She only then realized she had actually verbalized the beginning of her question; she closed her mouth and desperately pretended not to have said anything.

But it wasn't hard for Gladion to guess what she meant to ask. He had noticed her intense focus on the animal. He shook his head. "It took all of two years to get him to this point. When I started working with him, he was too traumatized to function. So I read as much as I could on behaviorism… Worked with him daily… It took persistence and patience. But I gave him what Faba and his employees couldn't." He looked back at Silvally, who had since snarfed down his last treat and wobbled its tail expectantly at him. "We have a bond."

"Hmph. Now you're sounding like your uncle."

"How can I sound like him? I've never even met him."

Lusamine could hear his bitterness and chided, "Oh, there's no need to sound deprived. For all the trouble he causes, he is a horrendous dullard."

"I always heard he's a brilliant scientist," Gladion contradicted with a shrug. "Why doesn't he work for Aether?"

"Young man, that is none of your concern."

Gladion didn't appreciate her lecturing tone; he gave her sharp side-eye, flicked another puff, and said, "I was only wondering―you never seemed that concerned about nepotism."

When Lusamine opened her mouth, fully intending to inform Gladion that _she did not need his opinion on how to run Aether_ , and was suddenly struck by a realization.

She felt sick.

Too much… In her head.

Had to get away.

* * *

"...Mother?"

Lusamine jerked herself upward and onto her feet. She didn't look at him as she stumbled toward an exit. She didn't head outside, but instead reached the interior hallway just past the kitchen. In the narrow, carpeted hall, she could hear only the dull flapping of the rubber sandals against her feet; the walls had once been a sleek, pearly white before grunts came through with neon spray paint, thus giving it a fresh, explosive aesthetic. She kept walking, as if by doing so she might escape all that chased her.

But within a short minute's walk, the hall opened into the front lobby, which glistened with golden light and wine-colored upholstery. Interior staircases that led to the upper floors flanked her on both sides, gaudy and lined with pearl-colored railings. At the center of the lobby, on a small, round platform, there rested a grand piano in all its splendor. Where a musician might have normally sat to play for the pleasure of entering guests, it now remained undisturbed; the occasional grunt had toyed with it at different intervals throughout the prior evening and this morning, but they had each grown tired of it. It was a miracle that none of them had decided to vandalize it.

A circle of comfy chairs and sofas encircled the piano, creating a lounge atmosphere that would have served adults well. The teenagers had turned it into a lounge of their own: dozing, resting their legs on coffee tables. It was apparent that some of them spent the night there. A few sleepy-eyed children saw her and rubbed their faces, perhaps thinking she was a lingering dream. After a girl uttered something, a few more heads popped up from behind couches like curious rodents.

Lusamine chose to ignore them and venture for the only object of her interest. Nimbly, carefully, she brought herself to the platform, stepped up onto it, and took a moment to bond with the ebony instrument. Touching its frame brought back a flood of memories, some sweet, some bitter. She had spent endless hours of her life seated before keyboards like this―starting at an early age, at which her father insisted all proper ladies should begin their musical education. But what started as an act of adult coercion had since evolved into an integral facet of her life; music was rhythm and pattern and order, as she believed all things ought to be.

Now, she looked down at the row of endless white-and-black pieces, reached out with a hand at starting position and pressed down a single key. The note rang out, almost as loud as a booming voice through the relative quiet of the lobby. The sound reverberated for several seconds. She closed her eyes, and the vibration of it swooped through her, capturing every errant energy, absorbing all chaos and compressing it into that single, beautiful, containable tone.

She sat down.

The motion that then flowed forth from her fingers came purely from her heart. She had no thought of any particular melody or chords, but felt and acted upon an outpouring of feeling, passion and rage, despair and longing, all booming and echoing through the halls. Her head whirled. She played on, and on, and on, until exhaustion set in, and finally her hands slowed to a stop. She was spent. All the thudding in her brain ceased, replaced with blissful catharsis. She could not tell for certain how much time had passed. But the silence ringing in her ears was deafening for a moment.

Then Silvally, after sneaking up behind her, barked with rich gusto and she leaped, crying out in surprise. Her elbow landed on a few keys, giving out a discordant clang of sound, and a close-by collection of teenagers broke into laughter at her near heart-attack.

"Silvally!" Gladion, at least, sounded appropriately cross. "Down."

Dejected, Silvally took a few steps backward and settled a polite distance away. Lusamine turned around after recovering from her fright and found herself rather surrounded. She had been so distracted by her playing, she hadn't noticed a small crowd of grunts peeking over her shoulder, not to mention her son and pet monster lurking behind her. The slovenly collection of grunts eyed her, like they had just witnessed a miracle.

"Aww, man. You can really play, huh," one boy nervously complimented while fidgeting with his bandana.

She was ready to politely deflect the compliment, but noticed to the detriment of her already-shot nerves that a few grunts had started hugging Silvally and leaning their bodies into it, as if it was a toy. They cooed pet names― _Silly! Hey, Silly!_ To her shock, neither Gladion nor the monster complained. It gruffed once in annoyance at having its fur pulled, but otherwise shook its mane and blinked slowly as it suffered a bit of rough play.

"I think," Gladion said, interrupting her stunned silence, "he wants you to play more, Mother."

She stared, incapable of speaking.

When Gladion sensed that this was either unwilling or unable to play, he stepped forward. "It doesn't matter. I can do it."

Lusamine had no time to rebuff him; he planted himself on the bench next to her. And so he put his hands to the keys and delivered a memorized cantata.

* * *

Gladion always had innate musical talent, but of course, compared to her, he fumbled a little more with the keys, and didn't have the precise timing that she had perfected over the years. His core competency more than made up for his shortfalls, though, especially for the unlearned ears of their audience, and so he carried on to the end in serene confidence. His performance also didn't carry the same overwhelming passion hers did, but it was sweet and cheerful, and had a friendly and genuinely pleasing tone to it that made Silvally wobble and whistle along. Once the piece came to its end, Gladion glanced around and read the shock on the grunts' faces.

"His taste in music isn't the same as mine," Gladion confessed. He sounded a sliver embarrassed.

An older boy snickered, elbowed his way past a few others, and thumped Gladion on the arm. "Yo-o, Li'l G, look atchoo! You holdin' out on us! You one o' them baby geniuses or what!?" The boy clumsily plunked his own fingers on the keys, as if to test whether it was really all that difficult.

Gladion looked exasperated, and Lusamine couldn't help but add to his mortification by sweetly bragging, "Oh, he was a brilliant little boy. He spoke full sentences at one, and was reading whole novels by the age of three―in French and English―"

(He was sputtering now, turning red, and glaring at her. He put a hand to his face and mouthed sternly, _stop_.)

"At six, he entered a youth musicians competition. Most of the candidates were twice his age, and he won second place―"

"I'm not a genius," Gladion suddenly blurted, over the giggles of the grunts. He scowled at her. "You forced me to take lessons. That's all."

The older Team Skull grunt shrugged and shook his head, wearing a bitter smile. He rapped his knuckles on Gladion's skull. "S'alright, G. We all know you smarter than us boneheads. Big G was always sayin' that."

Gladion turned around to face the piano again. He sourly dipped a finger onto a flat note. "Mr. Guzma… is easily impressed."

(To his credit, the older boy didn't seem able to respond to that. The boy snorted and stalked back into the fold.)

Lusamine almost wanted to ask what that was about―but she knew better than to think he would share. It seemed to be pecking-order business. Boys being boys, enviously wrestling for power and favor.

"To be honest, I hated those lessons."

Lusamine realized then that he was addressing her directly. Even maintaining eye contact. She gave a nervous flutter of her eyelashes and reflected on her own experience. She had very early memories of throwing fits and having to be dragged to the piano bench where her tutor awaited her. "All children do."

"That's probably true," Gladion acknowledged. His voice finally softened. "I still remember what you told me, though. You said that someday, I would come to appreciate it. I figured that was one of those lies adults tell―" When he saw Lusamine's eyes narrow crossly, he was quick to explain, "But, after all… It did come in handy. There was a piano at Shady House, in one of the back parlor rooms. No one knew about it. I asked permission to dust it off and put it to use; of course Mr. Guzma didn't care, so I would play sometimes. Silvally liked to listen. It was one of the few things that put him at ease, before I was able to remove his control mask."

Lusamine didn't understand.

 _Why tell this story?_

Why submit something so personal to the conversation―with others so close by?

Did he mean to embarrass her in retaliation? To prick her with guilt? Or excuse her? Or extend an offering of peace…?

She didn't know whether to pull him into her arms or throw him to ground.

He stopped waiting for her response. "Anyway. I'm not as practiced as I could be. Somebody found the piano―and smashed it to pieces."

This part of the story triggered her worst indignation. She rose up to her feet and howled. "How very foolish!"

The grunts skittered away and cowered. Gladion, as shocked as the rest of them by her anger, leaned back.

"Is that really the sort of barbarians you've been consorting with? The sort of people who would destroy an object like this!" She drew her hand over the sleek, black frame. "A thing of such beauty… And perfection… And artistic value… Such an object has a _soul_."

Gladion was stunned. Not that she chose to defend the piano's honor, and not his―that was to be expected. But her hypocrisy shone out enough to drive him to his feet as well. "How can you even say that!?"

The grunts started shifting their feet, angling away.

"You can believe that a piece of furniture has a soul―" Gladion pointed at Silvally, who stared at the two of them in befuddlement. "But _he's_ trash to be discarded!?"

It was then that Lusamine realized the source of his anger. Of course. He had been no doubt broiling over Aether's treatment of that thing for years. She had waited to hear his nonsensical rantings on it―and now, she was about to receive an earful. Her first attempt was a dodge: "I was speaking figuratively; I think even you can understand that."

"Can you really tell me that for all that time, you looked into his eyes and didn't see a soul? Or at least _some_ kind of life worth preserving?"

"You can be so dramatic," she sighed. "First of all, I _did_ choose to preserve it; or don't you remember? I could have had it destroyed, but I'm not that senseless."

"Don't pretend that was a mercy! You just wanted to keep him alive so you could thaw him out whenever you wanted, to keep torturing him as you see fit!"

Slowly, surely, the grunts moved to a safe distance, placing themselves behind couches and chairs, but still watching intently as the family drama unfolded. There were whispers and held breath. The presence of an audience, however, didn't slow the mother and son down at all.

"...All this vitriol, directed at your own mother," Lusamine growled. She frowned then redirected, "Faba looked that creature in the eyes _plenty,_ and he had no qualms about any of it."

Gladion's hands shook. " _Him_? You're passing off your moral agency to _him_? That man barks on command!"

Gladion had been careless. He had too quickly, too readily exposed a sore spot for her to dig her fingers into. Lusamine clucked and put her hands on her hips, sneering. "Must you leap to the attack at the very mention of him? Honestly, dear. You shouldn't flaunt your Oedipal jealousy so transparently; it's unbecoming."

The grunts, of course, had no idea what she meant. But Gladion's shaking peaked; he gripped his wrist, face turning purple, and screeched so indignantly, that for a second his normally-even voice cracked. "What!?"

 _Everyone_ went still. Team Skull had seen Gladion angry before. They had seen him scowl, and threaten, and berate. They had _never_ seen him outright lose his temper.

"How can―!? Y-you're intolerable! It's like you can't conceive of anything that doesn't involve you at the center of it! Why did you even have children!?"

She hissed, "How dare you―"

"We were not born into this world to be on the receiving end of your psychoses, Mother! Maybe if you realized that, we could be an actual family!"

"Oh, is that what you've decided? That it's all my fault? May I remind you that _you're_ the one who abandoned us, on account of your personal hatred towards me."

"I didn't leave because I hated you."

"Of course you did! All I ever did was love you, and you repaid me with nothing but betrayal and cruelty!"

"This! This is why! You take everything as a personal affront! I…" He pinched his brow and released a frustrated, quelling snort. It succeeded in bringing his yelling down to a simmer. "I should have confronted you directly. I see that now. I should have told you what you were doing to Null was wrong―and made you understand. But I was young, and let's be honest, it wouldn't have worked, would it? You would have refused to listen, or taken it as a personal attack. So I took him and ran. To protect him."

"Fine." She clenched her fists at her sides. "Paint yourself as a hero. If that makes your miserable existence easier to bear―to imagine yourself as the hero, and myself as the monster to slay―"

"You're not a monster," Gladion said. "It would be easier for the both of us if you were! At least you'd have an excuse―and I would be free to write you off! But you're _not_! You know right from wrong; you just _pretend_ that shutting your eyes absolves you of everything!"

If she could have without consequence leapt onto him and scratched his eyes out, she might have. A dark impulse in her wanted to. She didn't have a chance to battle it, though, because Gladion released an aggravated sigh and stalked off toward the dining hall.

Lusamine looked around herself. Alone on a platform, surrounded by staring youth.

She tried to appear unfazed as she took herself out the front exit and into the morning air.

* * *

The breeze didn't liven her. In fact, to her now, it had a sickly flavor, almost rotten. Now as she looked at the horizon over the railing, she saw the stormclouds gathering at the edge of the sky, and knew that by the time the day was gone, they would reach her.

As soon as she recognized the dark rolling clouds, however, she heard an unfamiliar noise that pained her. Laughter. Spritely, bubbly, amused laughter that echoed from above, like ice-cold rain washing down her back. Because she thought she knew this laughter, she spun around and looked. At the upper floor, hanging over the railing with her feet hooked against the bars, Lillie stood with a yellow sundress billowing in the wind. She had her arm up and outstretched, and Lusamine puzzled for a moment over why. But the picture clarified: Guzma appeared beside her, evidently coaching her, even reaching out to grab and position her arm at a higher angle. A slice of bread was in the girl's hand, and as Lusamine stared, she noticed the flapping of Wingulls overhead, some dipping precariously close.

Lillie was shaking and flinching with excitement. One gull knocked nearly into her face, snapping and missing in midair. She screamed.

Over the wind, she could hear Guzma scolding, "Quit pullin' back, they won't―"

Guzma finally took and pinned her arm into an upright position, and the next swoop took: a Wingfull swooped in and snagged it from her fingers while still flapping in mid-flight.

Lillie screamed, but this time in delight; she laughed like it was the most delightful thing she'd experienced in years.

And then―Lusamine heard a sound she didn't recognize, because―it was Guzma, laughing too, snorting and undignified―

She thought on that collection of things: laughter, his touching her arm, her youth, her beauty...

Lusamine felt a wave of revulsion overcome her. She averted her eyes. She turned hard for the other direction and calculated in her head the best way to reach her room without having to acknowledge either of them.

"...Miss L?"

She'd been seen. She had to hurry.

"Uh, wasn't Gladion with you?"

"Mother?"

"Hey― Miss, wait up―"

* * *

Well, she thought darkly, at least **one of them** was enjoying themselves.


	31. A Glass Darkly

**Chapter 31: A Glass Darkly**

The trip back to Mele'mele had changed Guzma. This, Lusamine understood. Before then, he had been not much more than an irritating child who whined and threw tantrums, and whom she could corral with a stern word and tug on the ear. But somehow―whether by some transformation of his, or of her perception, she didn't know―when he returned to Aether, it was as if a decade had passed. He had become quieter, more firm, and more self-possessed. She threw herself at him, full of promises and sweet nothings, but he didn't seem… taken in. It frightened her.

In the days between his return and the boarding for the wedding, they spent more time together than they had in all of their alleged courtship. Lusamine, still languishing from stress, stayed at home and mostly remained in bed, so Guzma visited often. He talked to the nurse, asking after her; he roamed the house performing duties as she requested; he checked in on her, watched her. He even practiced the art of delegation by dismissing employees who showed up intending to pester her. His previous incarnation would have come off in all of this as dopey, needy, and sycophantic; now he moved with precision and confidence. Like a man. A man, running his household.

No other being could have inspired such contradictory passions in her. She loathed his renewed swagger, and resented that he no longer seemed intimidated by her. He didn't flinch at her threats. He told her what he thought, didn't mince his words, hurt her feelings, and didn't seem to care. It brought back the worst of Lusamine's contentions with the male sex. Yet, it also brought out primal urges not easily suppressed by intellectual preference. Her disdain couldn't stop the crawling feeling in her gut when he breathed on her, the heat cloaking her face when he kissed her, the shivers down her spine when he coolly dismissed her.

That's why, even though she was angry, she didn't lock the door to her suite when she stormed inside. She knew Guzma would follow her, and she didn't really mind. In fact, a small part of her hoped for it.

* * *

Her room still had a blanket of morning light coming through the window and covering the bed, so she collapsed onto it face-down and allowed a moment for the heat to soothe her bare shoulders. By the force of her fall, the flip-flops slipped from her feet and onto the floor.

Lusamine waited, and her patience was rewarded. Guzma pushed the door in, shut it behind him, and plodded over, standing himself next to the bed to look down at her. For a moment, he said nothing. He only loomed there, his shadow darkening her back.

"What happened?"

Rather than answer, she pouted and pawed the covers with her fingers.

He must have contemplated bringing up Gladion, because he deliberately avoided the topic. "Did you get any breakfast?"

"I wasn't hungry after all," she said. Despite her best effort at sounding pathetic, she came off as sniffy and petty.

Guzma didn't bother trying to argue with her. He sighed, and the next thing she felt was the sinking of the mattress where he sat. His quiet, polite seating arrangement at the edge of the bed lasted only a few seconds; rather quickly, he landed on his hands and took to leaning directly over her. Just when she thought this gesture of intimacy was out of line, he drew a hand to the side of her face, pulling back her hair around her ear to reveal the pallid surface of her cheek. He stooped downward, barely pressing his lips to her face as he mumbled, "But are you okay? I was―"

Lusamine tried to recoil on principle. But her shoulders pulled upward, and she felt a series of muscles in her body rippling with excitement. She had to lift her face from the covers to glare at him, eyes red, speaking sharply to counteract her pleasure at his touch. "Oh, _what_ are you doing!"

He withdrew only a few inches, connecting his eyes with hers, and gave her an earnest, but mildly annoyed look. "I'm just… try'nna make you feel better."

"If you want me to feel better," she hissed, pushing herself upward into sitting position on the bed, "then find your _darling stepson_ and teach him how to properly address his mother." Lusamine threw her legs over the side, fussed with her hair, and scowled to herself.

But Guzma lazily blinked at her, not moved by her anger. In fact, after watching her miffed snivelling, a smirk lifted the edge of his lips. He nudged himself behind her, reaching about her waist, and fastened her in his strong forearms. She grumbled unhappily and he teased, "Aww. Was he mean to you?" He had the _nerve_ to chuckle at her, and began stealing kisses over her heated protests. He finally came to rest his chin on her shoulder. "Fine. He's grounded."

"Don't condescend me," she snapped. She wriggled without much force to free herself, but he kept his hold, and she whined, "You're not taking me seriously at all."

"I ain't trying to take any of this seriously," he said. "I'm trying to flirt with you, and you're being a you-know-what about it."

Because she didn't have the physical leverage to slap him, she gave one more heave with her shoulders and snarled, "Try it with Lillie. She might be more receptive."

This pushed Guzma away much more effectively than her measly wriggling; he let go, stiffened, and uttered in despondence. "...What."

"You don't think I notice, do you?"

"Notice what?"

Lusamine pushed herself up from the bed and faced the window. "Having a lovely time with her this morning, were you? While I was busy being berated and bullied… Yes, I see how it is―if you'd rather spend time with her, then by all means, go ahead!"

Guzma had gathering inklings of her intense sexual jealousy before―he could remember, if he tried, hearing similar accusations before. But neither then nor now did he understand _why_ it came to light. It was a neurosis he had never imagined to be a maternal trait; he couldn't see the root of it. So instead of interpreting it as what it may represent (insecurity, projection, fear), he became frustrated. He stood to his feet as well, barking at her. "Yeah, you know what! I do like being around her! Because she's actually a _nice person_!"

 _Unlike you_ was the unspoken.

But Lusamine knew what he meant and turned to him, practically frothing at the mouth. "You're such a naive boy. She plays sweet and innocent, but make no mistake―she knows _exactly_ how to use those big cow eyes of hers―"

"Lu." He said it in his new voice: the firm voice. The intolerant voice. The _I-love-you-but-you're-nuts_ voice. His expression darkened. "I'm not trying to bang your daughter."

"Y-you―!" Lusamine's face paled; she held her arms close like his very words hurt her. "M-must you so vulgar! Honestly!"

"It's what you're saying, though!"

And since he was right, after all, she couldn't answer him.

So Lusamine did as she always did when her opponent failed to roll over and surrender; she feigned injury. This wasn't to say she didn't truly feel wounded―indeed, she felt cut by his willingness to point out her corrupt thinking―but she milked the hurt, letting it sting her eyes as she wandered ever closer to the window. The sun sharpened the glint of her tears, and she dropped her face in her hands. "Please…" Without shame, her voice slid into a high-pitched whimpering. "All anyone does anymore is scold me… I can't… I can't endure it from you, too…"

Guzma sucked in a breath, ready to launch into a righteous tirade. Then, as suddenly as his voice flared up, its intensity petered out. He dropped his shoulders, gazed at her, and grumbled his resignation. "Lu…"

(That wasn't so hard.)

"Stop. Don't… Don't cry, okay?"

When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she spun around and fell into his chest. She forgot her earlier chilliness, or perhaps decided that she could consent to his touch now that she had the emotional upper hand. Regardless, he didn't complain or resist. He anchored his arms about her shoulders and absorbed the rattling of her sobbing. A long stretch of time passed then, highlighted by the threads of sunlight cutting through the shadows of the unlit suite.

Then, she stopped. She slid her hands against his ribcage and miserably spoke to a sudden realization: "We were supposed to be married today."

He responded by awkwardly stroking her hair. She felt his lungs expand with a heavy sigh, and then his grumbling when he attempted to comfort her by saying, "We can still get married."

Lusamine dwelled on this nonsensical statement and shook her head without unburying her face. "With what? Before whom? Everyone's gone."

Guzma spoke staunchly. "Who, your 'wedding party'? So what! Those suck-up phonies are gone. Good riddance. You didn't really like any of 'em, did you? And―now we don't have anybody to impress, so we can just do it how we want."

She crumpled up tighter against his chest. "...It doesn't matter," she said, renewed bitterness weighing her voice. "...And even if we… Oh, what's the point… Anyway, the matter's done… The judge left, didn't he…"

Guzma let out a grunt of disgust and pulled her up by the shoulders. "What's a judge got to do with this! I'm not talkin' about some piece of paper. I'm..." He must have realized how mushy his reasoning was getting, because in embarrassment, he hid his face in her hair. "The paper, we can get whenever. But we don't hafta swear to a judge―we can swear to each other."

Lusamine felt unexpectedly touched by his dedication, but her lawful nature couldn't endure even that expression of loyalty. She tried not to melt under the force of the breathing gushing close to her skin. "Darling," she scolded gently, though she didn't push him away. "You're a crude poet… And a fool…"

If he was disappointed, he didn't show it, either by word or posture. His face remained close to her neck, and his grip on her didn't let up.

"I'm tired," she said, sighing into his chest.

"Maybe you ougtta lie down," he answered, like it was that simple.

Yes, she thought. She ought to go back to bed; she ought to give up on this ruinous day and wait for the next one.

Guzma took her silence as assent and tried to move with her, but hesitation kept her frozen in place. He eventually had to force her over to the bed by her shoulders, ("here, c'mon") and after seating her and further negotiating her back onto the bed, he found himself once more over her, her big green eyes gawping at him, dripping and honeyed.

Lusamine, in a sudden desperate swoop, pressed a hand to the back of his neck. She could feel the clench of muscle there.

"Uh…" Guzma returned her gaze worriedly. "Do you… Need anything?"

She had to hide her smile, because here they were, entirely alone, her vulnerable frame laid out beneath him, the both of them stirring with strange and abhorrent passions, and he didn't have the guts―or perhaps the imagination―to take advantage of any of it. She could think of several hair-raising suggestions of _what she needed_ , but the dear, sweet, stupid man probably didn't need the heart attack. So she said, her voice weak after all, "Will you stay with me?"

Guzma should have said no. His expression certainly communicated a desire to; his jaw clicked with annoyance, and he glanced at the door, pondering whose company he would have to forsake if he stayed.

"Just for a little while," she pleaded.

"I'll―" Guzma frowned at her. He had to pretend, for her sake. "For a _little while_."

And so―for a little while―the room was quiet, all brightness and shadows of a late morning at sea, and she sank into the plush surface of the bed, remembering now how easy it is to drift into slumber with a warm body next to her.

* * *

That day, Team Skull had come to the realization that without victims for their mischief, the excitement they first felt quickly faded. The only adults available to harass either disappeared or retreated, leaving the grunts to squabble amongst themselves, making their own entertainment with battles, havoc, and vandalism. Some of the older kids found and subsequently dismantled the lounge bar, which by the late afternoon led to a group of drunk, bored, and aimless teens with a growing malaise fumbling about the deck.

The sense of doom clouding over them made sense; the storm was rolling in.

Out in the open air, Plumeria had to tie her hair into a tight ponytail and tuck it beneath her jacket to keep it from whipping into her face. The clouds overhead had darkened, stealing the afternoon's sunlight and replacing it with shadowy gloom, and the though rain hadn't started to fall yet, the air turned chilly and moist, dragging mist from the churning ocean waves below. Some of the grunts still braved the weather against all wisdom, hanging from the railings and watching the storm broil, but most had now retreated to inside shelter, either their rooms or other interior spaces.

Plumeria had just come back from prodding Nanu awake―he had fallen asleep in a deck chair out front after drinking one-too-many gin and tonics. She thought about scolding the foolhardy boys tempting fate by leaning too far off the edge of the ship, but the vindictive, bitter streak in her suggested she leave them to it. Let 'em fall.

She hadn't come down from the argument that morning. Not a bit. It raked over her skin like nails, and she spent the day on a warpath, stomping and cursing and lashing out at anyone stupid enough to get on her nerves. This, naturally, had left her with little company, so as the last light of day dimmed, she remained solitary and above the fray on the upper floor. She had allowed her Salazzle some relative freedom, and enjoyed witnessing its mischief when it spat tiny, hot, harmless embers on the heads of drunkards below, but even that grew tiresome as the day went long.

Plumeria rested her elbows on the cold metal railing and as her eyes wandered over the overhead clouds, she spotted something familiar. A Masquerain flapped its wings, whirled its body in zigzag formation, and zipped back, leading her to turn her head and face the center of the ship.

Far above the resident floor and the navigation crew's quarters, a collection of antenna rested at the very top of the cruise liner, white wires and metal sticking out against the black sky. A skinny maintenance ladder led up to an outlook platform, by which crew could fix or adjust any malfunctioning equipment, or catch sight of ships far-off.

Guzma was there.

He had a hood over his head to block the first speckles of rain from his head, and he paced the walkway, seemingly aimless. Then, she noticed his Masquerain again swooping in from afar after circumventing the ship's axis; the pokemon landed, chittered at him, and after he made a dismissive gesture, it lifted off again. He watched it carefully and scrutinized the skyline where it went.

Because he didn't notice her, Plumeria had a choice to make. She could ignore him and go inside, or she could make her way up there and attempt conversation. As tempting as it was to pretend he didn't exist, she couldn't deny the draw of another fight. Hostility still stung her blood, twitching her feet and hands. And if there was anyone on the ship she felt like reaming out about now, it was him.

She had to find the stairway up to the navigation quarters first, which took some investigation, then she found the ladder. Only a few steps onto it, however, the door to the navigation quarters popped open; evidently, through the window, a crew member had spotted her and took issue with her snooping. The young man in a crisp white dress shirt, black tie, and broad black coat poked out, shielding his head from the wind with a cap.

"Hey, ma'am― ma'am!" When she gave him stink-eye, he cowered a little, but was brave enough to continue, "You don't have authorization to be up here."

Just before she was about to ask, _what are you gonna do about it?_ , a voice came down on them.

"It's fine."

The gruff, unmistakable tone had a finality and authority to it she didn't expect. She and the crew member looked up to acknowledge the source of the order; perhaps the crew member hoped to elicit some explanation for the allowance, but Guzma, hard-eyed and tired, had nothing to add.

The crew member scratched his chin but nodded. "All right. You be careful," was all he said to her before hurrying back inside.

* * *

Plumeria climbed the ladder, but by the time she reached the platform, Guzma had already turned around to face the sea.

She waited a moment. He didn't turn back to her, even when she cleared her throat and tapped her foot on the opposite side of the railing. Despite her intentions in climbing up here, and despite the irritation she felt at being ignored now, the fact that he invited her made the prospect of battling him less appealing. Besides, even from behind, she could read his demeanor: heavy, distracted, morose.

Finally, he spoke without looking at her. He sighed and shook his head. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm bored."

He didn't like that response. "It's gonna storm soon," he said quietly, as if it couldn't be more obvious. "You should get inside."

"What about you?"

He shrugged. "I'm waitin' on something."

"What're you waiting for?"

"Mail."

Plumeria glanced out over the tumultuous sea. It didn't seem like ideal timing for a Pelipper delivery. "Yeah? What kinda mail?"

After a second, Guzma said, "A 'wedding present'."

The way he said it _almost_ came across as sarcastic, but she correctly caught onto the insinuation that he was using someone else's words. That made her wonder who would be sending a 'present' after the wedding was cancelled―and who would have the dark sense of humor to call it that to his face.

She crossed her arms, face laden with suspicion. "Is it expensive?" (It had to be _something_ to merit his anxious pacing along the upper deck.)

"It's…" He turned only to show the side of his face and frowned. "Kinda nunna your business."

"Okay," she said. She raised her hands in surrender. "Fine."

Plumeria almost wanted to say something else to assuage him, but was interrupted when Masquerain fluttered in, landing next to Guzma's hand on the rail. It shivered its wings unhappily and complained; he glanced down and asked, "Still nothing?" It squeaked again, more insistently this time. He felt the faint raindrops dappling his arms and coat and realized the problem. He spoke apologetically. "Too wet out there, huh?"

Masquerain drooped.

"...Doesn't matter," he assured it. "Can see from here."

The wind churned, turning brisk and wild at the elevation where they stood. Masquerain clung to the rail to dry its wings, and Plumeria rubbed his arms against the bitter cold. In the awkward silence, she tried to think of what to say. Nothing seemed right. Even though he stood mere inches from her, it was like he was on another planet.

Then, to her surprise, _he_ started the conversation. He said, clearly and with deliberate purpose, though still without facing her, "Did you ever think of me as a good person?"

Because Plumeria didn't understand the weight of his question, she quipped, "I thought you were a huge dork; does that count?"

He went silent.

Plumeria realized he didn't want a joke answer, and clumsily attempted to recover. "I don't know―we dated, so I musta thought something about you."

That answer didn't seem to satisfy him, either. He drummed his fingers and wrinkled his brow, his gaze still fixated on the ashen sky.

What was bothering him?

Plumeria sucked her teeth, but a memory sat at the tip of her tongue. She let it out. "Even though we almost didn't, after that first attempt. Geez. I was, like, pretty sure that was the worst first date in the history of Alola."

The only glimmering he had left of it was on the front steps of her trailer―the moment suspended under the night sky, their lips together. Hearing her describe it now, though, made him shift his stance a little. He moved toward her, facing her.

"We had hung out with each other a lot before then, no problem; I mean, you were a little stiff at first, maybe, but you warmed up, and I figured we were friends. And then outta the blue you were all―" Plumeria dipped her voice into a mocking baritone to imitate his juvenile drawl. "'Uhh, uhh, do you wanna go out?' I said okay, and then... We went and got malasadas together, and you didn't say a _word_ the whole time. You just played on your phone. I kept trying to start a conversation and you were all 'uh-huh' and nothin' else. I thought I was gonna deck you. Then! You walked me home, and I guess you thought it went pretty well, 'cause you didn't even ask, you just kissed me."

While she spoke, she kept a close eye on his face, which remained blank. He recalled only snippets of what she mentioned―and in retrospect could explain his rude behavior (diagnosis: fifteen, never been on a real date before, petrified).

"Uh, you remember what happened with the kiss, right?"

Did he? The second their lips were together―the rest of it slipped from him. It was so long ago.

Plumeria looked miffed. "You stuck your tongue down my throat. Or tried to, anyway, before I shoved you off." She grimaced and shook her body with a dramatic shudder. "Ugh! I thought I was gonna puke. I slapped you. Come on, you really don't remember? I called you a sicko. You were all, 'but, but, it's what they do in movies' and I was all, 'boy, what kinda movies you watching!?'"

As she talked, her disgust turned to humor in hindsight; she burst out laughing at the memory, all while his face contorted with horror.

"What?" She noticed his crestfallen expression and worried that she had hurt his feelings. She thumped him in the chest with the flat side of her fist. "Hey―don't be so serious."

"I…" He shut his eyes, shifted his body away, and sighed. "I must've... " He went quiet for a while. "...I was a jerk."

"Yeah, but I forgave you, right?"

"No," he corrected. "That's not…" He braced himself with frustration, then announced stiltedly, "I didn't love you." When she took offense, reading it as an attack, he placated, "I'm sorry. I… liked you. I like you. But… not like that."

Plumeria stood stunned. As much as this was a dagger through her heart, more painful than his later dismissals and jeers―an erasure of all the goodness she ever thought she had experienced with him―the expression on his face communicated incredible shame, unlike any she had seen in him before. And it seemed wildly disproportionate, like he had just confessed a mortal sin, rather than a youthful indiscretion.

"I shoulda been honest," he rambled. "But I was... running from things, and you were _there_ , so I used you. I used how you felt about me… To pretend like I wasn't so screwed up."

Plumeria sensed that his blabbing would get worse before it got better. She interrupted. "Guz."

He sucked in a breath, but listened.

"So you're saying... " She put a hand to her hip, and fixed a stern glare onto him. "You didn't love me… But you love _her_."

Guzma refused to answer.

"I'm tryin' to even make _sense_ of that."

"Well, luckily it's not your problem!" he snapped out of sudden anger. He rested his fists on the railing and tensed his arm muscles, like he meant to take a swing at something. The wind blew his bangs into his eyes, and all at once, his face snared and coiled with grief. But after that one shout, his shoulders slumped and he tilted, nearly knocked over by the creaking sway of the ship. His voice descended until it became almost inaudible. "I don't expect you… To get it, okay?… But I went home for a couple days… and it all just… Got real clear to me, then." His eyes slid shut, and he sank into deep thought. "After everything that's happened… I just… I want one person to be better off for having known me."

The better part of Plumeria would have assured him in that moment that he _had_ done some good, but she feared he'd press for details, and she wouldn't be able to think of any clear examples. She loved him once― that was the best she could think of, and even that held unclear significance, as that love came entwined with hurt, jealousy, deceit, betrayal...

It was like he read her mind. "Plume," he pleaded, "you gotta get over me."

"...What?" She promptly cussed under her breath and scoffed. "Ex- _cuse_ me?"

"It ain't worth it. Getting jealous over me… You deserve better than that, definitely better than me―"

"Woah, what? _Stop_. I am…" She flared her nostrils, fists and mouth tight with strain. When she gathered the words to sputter at him, they unfortunately came out very unconvincing. "I've―hey, I-I've _been_ over you! Okay!?"

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I―!" Plumeria braced her arms firmly across her chest. "Because I think you're an idiot!"

"Lotta idiots in the world, Plume," he said. "You could be hassling any of 'em. Instead, you're here." With a disgusting air of certainty, he rested his chin in his hand and traced the wind's current by following the clouds. He heard her steaming silence and shrugged. "I'm just _sayin'_."

...Even if he had a point ( _even_ ), she wasn't going to admit to anything, so the exchange stopped dead there and moved no more. Which was just as well, because far off, a rumble of thunder shook the twisting underbelly of sky, and the rain started in thick, intermittent slabs of moisture hitting their faces and bodies. Guzma allowed Masquerain to retreat inside its ball, and the two of them were about to retreat to shelter themselves when a shape took form in the distant blackness. The flapping figure was but a pinpoint at first, but its weaving approach brought it closer and more visible with every pump of its wings.

The Pelipper gave out a hearty, beckoning call out from the storm, and Guzma lunged for the ladder.

* * *

The typhoon descended on the cruise liner like a ravenous beast, all growling, snarling, howling, with lashing rain and slithering skin. Its arrival successfully sent the remaining grunts scurrying indoors, for it rocked the ship with violent force, threatening to throw any daredevils over the railing and to a most-certain death in the tossing waves. The entire ship convulsed and swayed, dipping and plunging its nose into the oncoming crashes of water; gushing streams spilled over the various railings, creating a wild series of waterfalls descending each level of the ship. Outside, the noise and darkness could have made someone believe the world was about to end.

Inside, though, in the safety of the sealed, electrically-lit rooms, the exterior violence was but a distant, muffled sound.

Gladion, for one, had settled himself on his bed with a laptop on his lap. He looked up only when Silvally growled at an errant gust of wind which rattled the far window. He frowned and returned to his work. He tapped his chin, read the text he had just typed, pondered how to adjust it...

In another room, Lillie watched the pattern of rainfall decorating the glass...

And yet in other rooms, members of Team Skull hunkered down for the evening, trying to pass the time by playing cards.

* * *

In Lusamine's room…

A dormant battle ensued. A fight of will, of dreaming, of half-conscious whirlings and imagery; Lusamine imagined Guzma still there, his arms around her, then wandering; she imagined, and felt, those things which she repressed and denied. Had she not read of many emperors and kings, fallen by this…? But self-control went in her sleep, and so she had to endure the bombardments of her longing, beset by her loneliness.

Besides, her weak psyche meandered, no more devoted capable of clinging to one thought than she was capable of controlling it―Mohn was there too, and monsters, and stingers and teeth. Her veins burned. She could feel her flesh dissolve under Guzma's lips, like sugar melting on tongue―

She moaned. " _Guzma_."

Then she woke up with a start.

The room was quiet, dark, empty, cold. Though her body trembled with a quickened pulse, she found she couldn't move. Her limbs felt numb and clammy. The walls came into focus and her fingers dug into the cool fabric of the bed.

(A dream, a dream, just a dream…)

The whispering started again, like a painful tickle at the very back of her brain.

 _Mother_.

She shivered and rolled onto her back. Cold air filled her lungs; the howling and battery of rain outside steepened her chill. Once she felt the emptiness of the bed, she recklessly threw her arm atop the bedsheets, groping in the dark to find him. But he wasn't there. He had gone. By the coolness of the bed's surface, she could deduce he hadn't been there for hours.

 _Mother, see? Left you. Even he..._

From the window, a flash of brilliant white light illuminated the room. An explosion of sound from the landing crack of lightning rattled the walls, successfully frightening her with its proximity. But it didn't quiet the voices.

 _It's here! It's here it's here it's here―_

"Hush," she hissed, pleading and gripping her skull. "Please."

 _Don't you hear it, Mother!? The sky is breaking―!_

And though she knew better, she _could_ hear it, and her heart raced with inexplicable excitement. At this point, with her wedding disrupted and life on its hinges, hearing the apocalypse crashing down on her was a beautiful, welcome affair. If she were lucky, the boat would sink, taking everyone with it, including herself…

This time, a thin thread of white traced downward from the clouds in clear view from the window. Its shape burned into her eyes, and suddenly, she thought she understood what the little voices meant.

 _It's here!_

The sky was breaking. Rivers of crackling energy rent through the fabric of reality; there came an awning sound from the wind, like a mouth gasping for air.

Lusamine toppled from the bed in her eagerness.

"I―I hear it, I―I'm coming!"

As she wobbled on uncertain footing, tossed even more off-balance by the sickly rocking of the ship, the pounding in her head increased in the pace of a war drum. She stumbled, reaching the door. As if from nowhere (and indeed, perhaps, from nowhere), her Mismagius hovered up before her, whispering and chanting its soothing spell. Guzma must have released it upon leaving; she often requested its presence to help her sleep. But obviously, its calming tones had done little to prevent her current torment. The voices still squealed in protest from her brain cavity, and she reached out desperately until her fingers melded with the pokemon's semi-transparent hem of skirt. Its chanting stopped and reduced to a nervous chitter; its red eyes widened at her.

"It's… all right… Darling…" She pressed her eyes shut to try and drive out the noise in her head. "You don't need… to worry, I'm only stepping outside."

It warbled, troubled.

"I'll be… right back. Mommy promises..."

The outer hallway lay in dead silence, with only the eerie, faint illumination of cabin lighting flicking above. If she could block out the voices now, she might have heard faint chatter from inside the other rooms from restless children, but the wind's howling called to her, and the inward chanting grew ever more persistent and goading. Barefoot― she hadn't bothered putting on the sandals gifted to her that morning―she fumbled back and forth in the hallway, balancing herself on each wall with a hand. In this drunken, zigzag form, through bleary vision and warped consciousness, she reached the door to the outside and had to struggle with it momentarily. The sucking force of the storm forced her to press all of her weight against it, to fight the vaccuum-like seal separating the interior hallway from the roar outside. She groaned, yanked on the handle, heaved, and finally, it flew open with such speed in the wind, that the metal door nearly ripped right off its hinges. An explosion of noise and cold bowled her over; she lifted her arms to protect herself. When she gradually worked up the courage to look, she saw the shadowy form of the rain-pummelled ship, the blackness of the void, the punishing wind.

Shivering, she nearly turned back. But the lightning came again, reminding her of her prize.

"It'll be here soon," she told herself. She forced a foot over the threshold, onto the slick, watery surface of the deck. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

* * *

 _"Mommy, look!"_

 _A girl ran past the doorway. All Lusamine could hear was the skittering sound of splashing footsteps; she gripped her umbrella in her hand, straining her vision to see…_

 _Giggling echoed out in the front stoop._

 _"Lillie," she found herself calling out, before she could even think the words―as if the words lay in waiting in her throat. A worried, pleading tone emerged. "Lillie, come back inside this instant!"_

* * *

Her bare foot trembled in the half-inch of freezing water. But she successfully blinked back the memory, readjusted back to the present, and climbed into the storm.

The sensation was not unlike being dropped out of a plane. Air tore around her, blasting her hair and dress in every direction. Rain poured down on in her in torrential, frigid sheets, drenching her to the bone immediately. The storm stole her breath, stole all her senses, drowning them in shrieking and clatter and rumble. By some miracle, she managed to lean forward and grab hold of some nearby railing, its metal as cold as ice against her palms. But it kept her upright and oriented her enough so that she began to slide her feet along the deck and towards the stairs.

Lusamine's body began to lose all feeling, numbed now by the pelting rain and wind. It took all her mental focus to grab at the railing and pull herself inch by inch, closer to redemption.

 _It's just over the railing. See it? You have to reach it. Then―_

"Then I'll be home," she agreed.

The exterior lighting over the deck proved murky and ineffective in the fog and rain, so descending the steps, even with the ship's safety features, had to be done in near total darkness. She could hardly open her eyes without being blinded by water flying at her, leading her to grope helplessly forward, trying ever-so-carefully to feel the steps with her feet…

Another lightning bolt. This time, it connecting to the waves only yards ahead of her, producing a sound like the world was ending. She felt the ship's frame rattle, her hands slipped, and then her feet, and then―she went backwards, landed on her side, sparing her head from banging onto the steps only by letting her arms take the strike. Metal clanged, and water continued to pool over the steps in waterfall formation.

Lusamine released a self-pitying moan and heard, to her surprise, a voice of sympathy in the darkness.

"Mother?"

* * *

 _"Mommy! Mommy, look!" The girl's dress was soaked through and ruined; she jumped into a puddle with her pink-sandalled feet, splashing in a fumbling, toddler's two-step. "I'm dancing in the rain!"_

 _How could she do it…?_

 _How could she, with her father gone in the cosmos, still dance? With wild certainty, like the world still had goodness yet to burst from its seams…?_

 _Lusamine's umbrella fell from her hand._

* * *

Out of the storm, like a spirit, Lillie appeared.

Much like the ghosts of fairy tales, she stood in a halo of light and in a white dress which flowed in the wind. From the top of the stairs, she gazed down on her mother, face twisted with fear and concern. In that moment, Lusamine had lifted the weight of her throbbing head to see this figure, and upon seeing it, shuddered in horror. That gangly, unseemly monster―that thing, destined to torment her forever―what did it want with her? Lusamine groaned again and began to fix her feet back beneath her.

"Mother!" Lillie's feet drummed down the steps; her hands grabbed at Lusamine's arm to help her up. "Are you alright?"

"Oh…" Lusamine pulled herself free of her daughter and clawed for the railing again. She spoke sharply. "Go away."

"Wh-what on earth are you doing out here!? It's dangerous!"

As if to prove her right, the ship shook with the force of a stern wave crashing into its side. A dark, crushing hammer of water swallowed the lower deck, drowning it momentarily until gravity forced the flood back over the edge of the ship.

"You c-could be―washed out to sea, like this! Come inside, please!"

"There's no need." Lusamine began again toward the lower deck, this time with more confidence. "I'm going… where I can't be hurt anymore."

Lillie lifted an arm against the rain. "What?"

"What a relief it will be for you," Lusamine snarled. She didn't face her daughter then, only gazing out into the gloom. "You won't have to worry… You won't be able to hurt me anymore; no one will." (She could hear it more clearly now: the chorus, the humming call of her loves). "I'll be where I belong."

"Mother. _Stop_." A small, trembling hand grabbed at Lusamine's forearm. "You're scaring me. Let's go inside."

"You stupid girl!" Lusamine slapped the hand away. "Can't you hear it!?"

Despite being a few steps above her, Lillie cowered at her shouting.

In her craven exhaustion, Lusamine swung her arms in a wide, violent gesture. "The heavens are opening! The sky's rolling away, and―the singing, the singing, they're coming for _me_ , understand? They're coming to take me back to where I belong!"

―What was that look of sheer terror in Lillie's face? Like she was witness to some bizarre, unfamiliar lifeform emerging from its cocoon.

As Lusamine ranted, she felt more and more estranged from her body. Her head swam. "I've been very fair, haven't I! I've given this world more than enough chances, haven't I! But it won't do! It can't bring me happiness, not even a little bit―so I'm not staying, you hear me!" She tried to take the next few steps down; Lillie, ever-desperate, snagged her dress to restrain her. Another thunderclap at close proximity made Lillie scream, and Lusamine rejoined by shrieking and pushing the girl down onto the steps. "Unhand me! You―!" The revulsion she felt was so powerful that she had to stop and begin howling and sobbing. "You can't stand it, can you! You can't even stand the thought of me being happy!"

"...Mother…" Lillie, resting her hands on the steps, puffed with strain and shock. She brought her knees together in a small, cowardly way at first, but her blank, terrified look started to turn and bunch up with frustration.

But Lusamine could think only of paradise, her paradise, filled with crystals and the choral lovers. The more she dwelled on it, the more enraged she became. "I searched all the multitudes of the universe―I found the _one world_ where I could love, where I could _be_ loved, and you had to tear me away from it!"

"Why…" Lillie's voice rose, filled with courage and righteous anger. She leaped to her feet and returned fire. "You're not making any sense! Why did you think you had to search? Gladion and I―we were right there! And we loved you!"

Lusamine felt something bubble up inside her; she thought it was hatred, but once it stung her throat, it erupted in the form of derisive laughter. " _Loved_ me?" She sneered with as much force as she could bring to her numb, rain-streaked face. Droplets flung from her face as she sputtered. "You can hardly keep your lies in order! First you say I'm 'terrible,' now you say you 'loved' me; or did you _love_ your _terrible_ mother!?"

"Do you want me to apologize for saying that? Because I won't! You really _are_ terrible!" Lillie breathed out clouds of exertion now, shivering from cold and fury. "In fact―I often wish you weren't my mother at all!"

Perhaps her daughter meant for this comment to hurt her, but Lusamine was so transcendent in this moment, nothing of this dimension could possibly bring her down. She shut her eyes, absorbing the roar of the storm, and turned toward the sea. "Well," she said, speaking quietly and emotionlessly, "that won't matter in a few minutes. As you can see..." She waved at the black, crackling sky, like the truth was self-evident. "My paradise is coming back for me."

Lillie finally understood. "You mean, if an Ultra Wormhole opened up right now, you'd jump into it without a thought?"

"There's no ' _if_ ,'" Lusamine insisted. Her eyes searched the horizon with the excitement of a child. "It'll be here soon."

"You'd do that?" Lillie still sounded disbelieving. "You'd just―go? And leave everyone and everything behind?"

"...Of _course_. What do I have here?"

Now the young girl was annoyed. She put her hands to her hips and scolded emphatically, "Don't you consider Mr. Guzma's feelings at all!?"

...What was Lillie's obsession with the young man? Suddenly, Lusamine could remember much of their last confrontation, when the girl asked her a nearly-identical question, though for a different set of circumstances.

"He really cares about you. He puts you before himself, again and again… I've seen it, and I still see it now. And so when I heard… You planned on getting married, I thought you'd changed. I thought you'd opened yourself up to those feelings. But you're ungrateful and selfish as ever!" Lillie shook her head. "If you had any sense at all, you'd go to him now, thank him for putting up with you, and beg his forgiveness!"

Guffawing, Lusamine started down the stairs, hurrying for the lower deck's railing. The voices trilled like maniacs, buzzing with encouragement. "I don't have time for your drivel," she cried. "I have to go― I have to―"

From then on, Lusamine could hear Lillie only faintly out from the storm. The girl persisted in pursuing her, trying to convince her to turn around and back up the stairs, but Lusamine knew her destiny, and was not about to be robbed of it again. She fell forward, landing on farthest railing, head perilously facing out over the riled ocean waves. Mist rushed up in the wind as the battery continued against the ship's frame; when she breathed, she breathed in salt and fresh rain, tumult and fear. As suddenly as she stood there, leaning hard over the railing, the ship dipped low in its rocking, heaving a pained metal groan.

 _It's here!_

It was true. Far above Lillie's hysterics and the frothing maelstrom, a pure light broke out in mid-air. It came with no grand announcement or sound, not like the tearing of thunder or the cracking of stone, but it fizzled, drawing a line of billowing luminescence mere feet from her.

Joy swelled up in her chest. She eventually stepped up on the lower bar to give herself more reach. The metal was slippery and freezing against her bare soles, but she didn't care.

Lillie panicked. " _Mother! Get down from―_ "

Lusamine extended her arm out, pulling on the length of her whole body to reach it. The precarious balance she found made her legs wobble, but it was _so close_ , she could feel it, the opening… Deliverance…

Out from the void, music began again. The light, which moments before had no suggestion of shape, now took form. One of Nihilego's arms dropped from the sky.

Lusamine nearly wept with relief; she waved her arm at it, pleading for its attention and simultaneously jeering Lillie for her lack of faith. "You see! You see now! It's come back! Oh, lovely… Beautiful thing! I'm here! I waited!"

" _What are you talking about? There's nothing―_ "

The watery tentacle outstretched, threading out of the darkness for her hand.

She stretched, stretched her own arm until her muscles felt ready to tear apart.

It… Nearly touched her… It twisted, unwound itself into white, translucent fingers, wrapping about hers… They were warm and electric, eliciting in her a gasp of ecstacy...

" _Mother! Stop! You'll fa―_ "

And the wave, which Lusamine had not noticed until that moment, and which towered over them in the form of a tremendous, starless night sky, crashed down on their heads, swallowing all sound, all breath, all passage of time.

* * *

Water.

Lusamine never noticed before―but it had magical, time-altering properties. It slows time down. Freezes it in place. In water, time cannot get away.

So when the wave overtook them, the water seized those few seconds, suspending them into an eternity.

In the first second, there was the sound of rushing water throwing her back, knocking her head onto the deck. Her skull bashed against the wood, disorienting her, and for that second, she thought she was free-floating, swallowed up.

By the next second, she found she couldn't breathe, and all around her the black water came to a standstill, murky and chilled. The salt stung her eyes; she flailed briefly, but her limbs were trapped in the thick empty suspension, and as the universe went deathly silent, she became aware of the force wrapped around her wrists. They stung like cold iron, and held her tightly, throbbing from where her arms had been wrenched by the wave.

Then… Then the world went as quiet and still as glass. In her confusion, she nearly thought she'd succeeded and been thrown back into paradise. There were glimmers of light, strange colors, and breaths she could not siphon through her throat. And for a time, it remained like that, cold and solitary, nothing but a black, shimmering void surrounding her. A part of her knew this would not last forever; in fact, it would not outlast the very next few seconds, so she had to treasure this death-like peace while it still held her.

…

An image bore before her.

It had the ethereal glow and appearance of a holy relic. It was seated, its gold hair unfurling like flame, eyes shut, face darkened by the water. In this reflection that floated out of the blackness, she saw the features she loathed most about herself: fragility, slightness in frame, ghostly pallor, fear… The more she gazed upon it, though, the more she spotted the discrepancies of this reflection, its imperfections… Before Lusamine's mind could recover from the throbbing of striking her head on the deck, she had to sort through she discrepancies like a madwoman and attempt to piece them back together…

Lillie's hands were about her wrists, clinging to her in a vice-like grip. Even as the next second crawled forward, receding the waters and sucking them back over the ship in full-force, the girl held on by pinning her arms and legs around the metal railing. Lillie remained safe and secure as a result, but Lusamine's body skated over the wet deck and thudded unceremoniously against the guard rail as the sea attempted to flush her over the edge like free-floating debris. Lillie would have cried out, if water hadn't still scooped over their heads, stealing their voices for another terrifying second. But quickly, the water drained away, uncovering their battered and wearied selves clinging like wet cats to the guard railing. Time unfolded. Noise, too, resumed: the sound of Lillie's gasps and coughing up salt water caused Lusamine to attempt sitting up.

Lillie still held onto her wrists.

* * *

 _"Mommy!"_

 _Lillie's rain-dappled face beamed up at her. Lusamine ought to scold her―running around in the rain like that―but seeing her smile like that…_

 _"Mommy, dance with me!"_

 _The girl pulled her by her thumbs, as her hands were too small to wrap around hers; yet the strength in the little one managed to drag her out under the clouds, where rain sprinkled her back and the two of them whirled about, faster and faster, until grief couldn't catch them._

* * *

Both of them choked on brackish fluid before their lungs and eyes cleared. Lillie, spent and reeling, nonetheless was the first to push her sneakers underneath her and force herself to her feet. She gave Lusamine's arms a stern tug to bring her up, too.

"We have to go," she pleaded.

(Lusamine gazed weakly up at the sky. The light was gone, as was the Nihilego. Had it ever been there?)

"Come on! Get up! Before another wave comes!"

Contrary to Lillie's intentions, this fact almost inspired Lusamine to stay. Another wave. Another chance at darkness, at being washed away from the world. But the pulling was insistent, and she was too tired to fight it any longer.

When they reached the stairs, she managed to climb halfway to the top before collapsing face-down on the steps. She rested her cheek on the plank, letting rainwater moisten her shivering lips. Lillie must have feared she had passed out, because she cried out, bent down, and gave Lusamine's shoulders a vigorous shake.

"Mother? Mother!"

Lillie thwarted her best efforts at drowning in the shallow puddle by grabbing her shoulders and rolling her onto her back. She tried, too, to sit the woman up, but she had exhausted herself through this small physical feat. Fortunately, the splash of cool drops to Lusamine's tongue stirred her; she blinked in the rain, moaned, and pulled herself upright.

Sitting on the steps, she saw Lillie's face again, this time clearly. The girl was obviously weary, soaked through, shaking with cold, so that her face was even more pallid than usual, and her lips trembled. Droplets slid and traveled down her cheeks, accentuating the smooth shape of her face; her green eyes shone out, cleaving through the darkness. She had a face of kindness, of undeserved mercy...

Lusamine felt like something―or someone―had socked her in the gut.

So when Lillie tried to ask her what was wrong, all she could do was hug her knees to her chest, rock herself, and break into suddenly unrepressed weeping.

"I can't stand it," she blubbered. Like a whining child, she rubbed her cheeks with her hands, even though the rain disguised her tears and wetted any drying the gesture might have accomplished. "It just isn't fair!"

Lillie could have said something, but instead stood silently over her, her wet skirt flapping in the wind. Lusamine dropped her eyes, now unable to look up at her.

"What gave you the right!?" She slapped a puddle in the midst of her tantrum. "I just wanted to see him again, I j-just…"

After saying something that ridiculous, Lusamine steeled herself for the appropriate reprimand. What else should she expect? That was all anyone had to offer her anymore, and Lillie had shown her predisposition to it already. The insults that Lusamine had earlier dismissed as weightless now crushed her, and so she wallowed in self-pity, awaiting more abuse.

But Lillie said nothing.

She stood still for a while, listening to and observing her mother's overly-dramatic snit, then sat down next to her.

The storm yet blew, and the rain yet fell on them both… When the ship rocked, Lusamine grabbed at the railing to keep herself from falling over; Lillie would simply adjust her knees to keep balance. And in silence they remained. As it had before, the water around them ensnared those following moments, drawing them into what felt like hours upon hours of sitting and not saying anything at all, between Lusamine's perpetual, immature sobbing and Lillie's wordless contemplation.

Below them, the distortions of light, false reflections, and echoes of colors danced over the sheets of rain. Lillie scuffed her sneakers on the steps, aside the near-frozen bare feet belonging to her mother.

Without warning, as the worst of Lusamine's outbreak subsided, Lillie reached over without looking and grabbed her hand. Somehow, she did it without communicating any gentleness or affection, but had a stern, chiding grip, like a parent about to lead its child off the wrong path. Their hands were cold and numb together, but Lillie squeezed life into them. "Momma," she whispered, "it's okay to be afraid."

Lusamine wanted to retort. She had her retort at the ready, in fact. But when she tried, it hitched in her throat, and her throat tightened to prevent any second attempt. Her shoulders slumped.

These fingers were not of warm ecstacy; neither did they promise anything, neither did they vow to take her to paradise. They stayed, though. Even as thunder rolled its clamor overhead and the inky canopy of clouds rippled and moved at the gale.

So she held on until Guzma found them like that, two shivering wet creatures crouched in the rain, clinging to one another.


	32. Ephemeron

Guzma was _furious._

Lillie hardly knew what to make of Guzma's anger; he didn't so much as ask what the matter was, instead snagging them both by their respective arms and dragging them up the stairs like naughty children. He barked orders and admonishments in such quick succession that neither could follow what he said, but the two women wordlessly complied with the direction he pushed them in, hurrying themselves through the open door and out of the rain. Once inside, they panted, dripped, and waited as Guzma pulled the door shut and whirled around.

"Are you **_crazy_**!?" He fluctuated between hissing and yelling. Though he had only been out in the storm a few moments, he was nearly as soaked as they were, and seemed sore about it. His black hair flopped over his head like a mop, and he pulled anxiously on the leather strap of a bag he carried over his shoulder (Lillie realized then that the bag was unfamiliar to her). "Whatta you doin', sitting around in the storm like that? Coulda gotten―" He struggled to think up a likely scenario that would justify his fury. "―Struck by lightning, or something!"

Now, it seemed, was not the time to bring up that they had narrowly escaped being washed out to sea.

"And… You don't have shoes on," he added crossly, upon noticing it.

After a moment of gasping for breath, Lusamine said, voice flat, "Yes, dear, I know."

" _God_ , Lu!"

Lillie, still clinging to her mother's hand, begged, "Please, Mr. Guzma, don't yell at her."

"What? Why? Was it _your_ bright idea!?"

The girl puffed up and frowned. She could see well enough that Guzma was flustered, but after being treated with such polite kindness all morning, she hadn't expected to so promptly have her head bitten off.

Guzma finally grunted and smeared his wet hair back with his hand. "Never mind. Just― just― just―" He stammered, he was so lost in frustration; he waved wildly at the door to Lusamine's suite. "Get in the room. Let's go."

The two hesitated.

" _Both_ of you," he clarified. "Go!"

* * *

Inside the suite, Lusamine and Lillie continued to stand about awkwardly, trailing rainwater wherever they wandered together. Guzma barged in after them and went for the closet, from which he began digging out linens. He finally threw a muddled pile of towels into Lusamine's arms, then topped it off with a bathrobe.

The woman was so weary that she didn't move quick enough for his liking; he snipped at her, as if it really bore explanation, "Go get changed." Guzma watched Lusamine drift for the washroom only a second, then got grabby with Lillie, taking her by the arm and giving her an impolite shove in the same direction. "Hey―you go help her."

"What?" Lillie took offense and turned on him. "Why?"

"Well! You're both girls, aren't you!"

"I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself," Lusamine said calmly.

After seeing that her words had quieted their squabble, she disappeared into the washroom. Guzma meanwhile pulled a few more towels free, putting one around his neck and flinging another in Lillie's direction.

"Here."

The towel landed against Lillie's chest; she scrambled to grab hold of it. As she took it into her hands and pressed it shyly to her dripping locks, she found she couldn't stop her hands from trembling.

Guzma didn't copy her careful drying style, instead roughly scruffing his towel over his head until his hair went wild and undignified. He combed it with his fingers to bring back some semblance of seriousness so that he could interrogate her. "Alright," he said, "You gonna tell me what happened?"

She squeezed some excess moisture from her dress onto the carpeted floor. "I only… I found her outside."

"And?"

"I followed her."

Guzma still didn't look satisfied; he stared at her, awaiting the rest of her explanation.

"She was saying things… She wasn't making any sense at all…"

Lillie expected some form of surprise or defensiveness from Guzma, but instead, he absorbed this information peacefully, like it confirmed prior thinking.

"Mr. Guzma. Is something wrong with my mother?"

He turned away, feigning shock at the question. "Whatta you mean?"

The obvious dodge didn't inspire confidence. She huffed. "You know what I mean. Something's going on, isn't it?"

Rather than answer, Guzma pulled the leather strap of the satchel off of his shoulders. He placed the bag on its side onto the table. "I need you…" He paused to think. "...To get outta here. And―send your brother."

"Gladion?"

"You got another brother I don't know about?" he snapped. "Yeah, him! I need to talk to him. It's important."

But Lillie, after scouring her thoughts for any reason why she should be excluded, came up short. She shook her head, pleading, "Can't you tell me?"

This sudden and unwelcome turn toward whining set Guzma off; he lumbered closer to her until he nearly loomed, his eyes dark with frustration, his fists taut on both ends of the towel hanging from his neck. With not much more maturity, he said, "No, 'cause I don't feel like it―and I said go get him, so―" He motioned a rude, dismissive gesture at her, directing her eyes to the door. " _Go_."

Ordinarily, Lillie would have deferred to anyone bold enough to make demands. But today, she'd had enough. She stomped her heel and huffed up at him. "If it's something to do with my mother, it's my right to know!"

Guzma looked fully exasperated; he had neither the patience nor the intellect to argue this point with her, so he resorted to a stern, condescending retort: "This ain't a discussion or a debate, girlie! Look, you can leave on your own, or I can pick you up and throw you out―how'd you like that, huh!?"

Lillie flushed with anger. "I don't understand how one minute you can act like a gentleman, and the next you act like a big bully!"

Even though Lusamine emerged then from the washroom, donning the robe and looking yet fazed, even vaguely traumatized as shown the slow, uneven blinking of her eyes behind knotted cords of wet blonde hair, the two persisted in bickering as if she didn't linger several feet away. For those few moments, she watched them―and also noticed the mysterious satchel Guzma had brought with him.

Suddenly, Guzma lost his remaining temper. He sucked his teeth, lifted an arm, and made a false-start swoop with his hand, feigning an attempt at back-handing the girl. Lillie flinched, which he took as a victory. "You oughtta count yourself lucky," he said, sneering. "If I were your pops, I'd be liable to whu―"

Lusamine interrupted with a sigh. "Oh, _honestly_..." With Guzma glaring at her, she approached the girl and wove an arm around her shoulders in a mock-show of protection. In a faint, fragile tone, she chided, "Are you so used to threatening children...?"

Before Guzma could answer her, the woman faced Lillie directly.

"I'm sorry, Lillie…" The apology initially shocked them both, until further context emerged when she offered a tired smiled and pushed Lillie's wet bangs back with her fingers. "When he worries over me… He can get so very excitable..." Lusamine scooped her arms about Lillie's shoulders, pulling her into a soft embrace. "...It's alright… He doesn't mean it, of course."

If Guzma was confused before upon finding them sitting and holding hands, this arrangement confused him even more; he puzzled over the uncomfortable intimacy between the two, and opened his mouth as if to say something on that matter, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. So he shoved his hands into his pockets, shifted his eyes and feet, and waited.

Lusamine stroked the length of her hair in a way that seemed brimmed with meaning―a movement long-practiced but since neglected. Lillie shook, as if ready to burst into tears.

"Alright," Guzma finally said. He sighed and found courage to act on his discomfort by pulling on Lusamine's arm to unwind them. "Alright, alright, _c'mon_. 'S time to go."

To his surprise, the parting was reluctant; he had to tug with more force than he anticipated. After they parted, he, with as much paternal authority as he could muster, urged Lusamine to return to her bed and pushed Lillie for the door.

The girl turned mid-push, like she couldn't bear to go. Her eyes lifted up at him, glassy and welled-up with tears, and her voice choked. "M-Mr. Guzma, I―" The remaining words lodged in her throat and wouldn't budge.

Her tears were... indecipherable to him. He couldn't even tell if they were meant for him, for Lusamine, or for something else entirely. This fact both annoyed him and softened his tone. "Quit cryin'," he scolded half-heartedly. He continued to nudge her on her way out. "You ain't hurt." Now that she wasn't resisting anymore, it took only a few moments for Guzma to direct her out the door; he stood ready to shut it behind her, but added, "Go get fixed up, huh? And then get your brother."

That he repeated his request brought back her ill mood. She nearly protested.

" _Please_. See? I said 'please,' even."

Lillie turned a tired, defeated expression on him. After a moment's contemplation, she gave up the fight. "You'll take care of her?"

It was a silly question, meant only to stall him; he shooed her away.

* * *

Now that they were alone, Guzma snapped right into playing the role of a busy and fretful nurse. He placed Lusamine under the blankets before retrieving more from the linen closet to pile atop her; he draped wet items as he could find them over chairs and tables. When he saw she had settled in but still shivered, he asked if she was warm enough.

Lusamine had started to become lucid, and showed this by curling under the covers and purring a cheeky, "Oh, I don't know―why don't you warm me up?"

"I'll make some tea," he answered, deftly avoiding her innuendo.

"...Hmm." He had retreated into the kitchenette, so she uttered out of range of his hearing, "How very domestic."

Fortunately, Guzma had the night before figured out the kitchen arrangement, and from practice, he knew how to prepare tea the way she liked. With minimal banging and clanging of cupboards and pans, he was able to draw up a kettle and put it on to boil. He waited. He peered around the wall divider that maintained privacy between the kitchen and bedroom; in his few minutes of tinkering, she had gone terribly quiet. His fingers drummed the countertop.

Then, across the suite, she let out a soft giggle. "...Hiding under the bed, were you, darling? You naughty thing."

Guzma ventured out and saw that her Mismagius had emerged from hiding, now that the drama was over. It chattered and cooed over her, fluttering its purple skirt as she reached up to tickle its face. Guzma eyed the Mismagius with visible annoyance. "I told her to watch you," he said.

Lusamine turned up her nose in defiance. "And so she did."

"Yeah! She watched you walk right out the door, no shoes on or nothin'."

"Oh, but…" Lusamine cupped its face in her hands, saw its red eyes blink back at her in muted sorrow, and quietly retorted, "She isn't yours. It's not your right to scold her."

Guzma was about to open his mouth and argue, but thought better of it. He noted the double-meaning of her complaint. After swallowing a small bit of shame for his earlier blow-up, he gazed coolly at her. "Why'd you go out, anyway?"

Lusamine, unhappy with the question, sank until her voice was muffled by the blanket. "I only wanted some fresh air."

"In the middle of a storm."

"I'm a grown woman," she said. "I can decide for myself what sort of weather I can tolerate…"

" _Lu_. Did you see something?"

No response.

"...Did you… Hear something?"

Mismagius floated upward in excitement, chattering something frantically in response to Guzma's question. It couldn't communicate its message, however, which was just as well, as Lusamine hissed at it―' _hush; tattletale!_ ' Aloud, she answered, "I haven't the foggiest what you mean by that."

Because Guzma knew she was lying, he readied himself to call her out―but the kettle whistled, and he shook his head, shuffling back for the kitchen.

* * *

Gladion almost didn't come. Could anyone really blame him? Though not proud of how he felt, he had very nearly given up on the whole affair; the idea of seeing his mother again for any reason turned his stomach. But when Lillie appeared at his door looking miffed and distraught, he told himself, _one last try_.

So he went. He knocked on the door, and Guzma peered through. The man's head of hair was still tellingly moist, adding to Gladion's impression that something catastrophic had gone on. Guzma also looked a little surprised and relieved to see him―he must have somehow guessed at Gladion's reluctance to show.

"Lillie said you wanted me," Gladion said. He thought a moment, then added, cocking an eyebrow, "To be exact, she said 'that big moron asked for you'-what did you do to make her mad?"

For the first time, Guzma realized that Lillie shared certain things with her mother. He ignored the comment and propped the door in invitation.

Gladion, though, didn't seem eager to leap forward; he eyed the man suspiciously. "What's this about? Is it Mother?"

"Yeah, yeah―c'mon, get in."

"I'm not sure I should," Gladion said bitterly. "Seeing as she thinks I'm in love with her."

Guzma only half-heard and consequently misunderstood Gladion's snipe. "Huh?" The elder boy shook his head in despondence. "Quit being weird! I need your help with something."

Help? The word triggered even more suspicion. Gladion craned his neck to see around the corner, but couldn't spot any obvious signs of ambush. He kept his cautious manner and crept inside.

The open floor suite gave him a clear view of the living area and bed, so it took no time at all to find himself face-to-face with his mother. Lusamine had brought herself to an upright seated position against the headboard, her skin an unhealthy pale hue, her hair tangled and stringy about her shoulders, her eyes dark with exhaustion. In her hands, she carried a delicate white china cup full of brew, which somehow seemed too heavy for her, as she had to put her full strength into pulling it to her lips. A sip of hot tea later and she spotted him in return. Her eyelashes fluttered unhappily. " _Oh_." Her tone dipped to a frigid temperature. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"...If only I knew."

Guzma hurried to Gladion's side, motioning earnestly for him to keep moving.

"Guzma. Do you intend to bring everyone through my suite before the night's over?"

"No," he replied stupidly. Again, he tried to urge Gladion toward the kitchen. "Keep drinking your tea."

She sounded tired and on the verge of irritated. "What's he doing here?"

Realizing she wasn't going to let up until she received a satisfactory answer, Guzma paused, scrambled for his options, and chose. "He's…" Guzma clapped his hands abruptly on Gladion's shoulders. "He's here to apologize."

"I―what?" As Gladion looked up at him, baffled, Lusamine gave Guzma an equally surprised look. "That's not―"

But Guzma persisted with a firm nudge to his arm. He lectured, sticking a finger in his face as he did, "Uh, _yeah_ , you _are_. You're gonna say you're _sorry_ for how you talked your mother today."

"...You've got to be joking." In fact, he was so sure that Guzma must be pranking him that he nearly laughed. He had to give Guzma credit―it wasn't the most convincing act he'd ever seen, but he was putting full effort into the stern-father role. Gladion balked. "You don't know what was said. You weren't even _there_."

"Doesn't matter! Whatever it was, you hurt her feelings, so apologize!"

Gladion stiffened. He didn't even look at her, instead cementing his gaze on this new, physically dominant challenger. Unafraid, he planted his hands on his hips. "Like hell."

From across the room, in a comically gentle fashion, Lusamine tutted, "Gladion―language." She placed her teacup aside, rubbed her forehead, moaned a little, and continued in an exasperated way, "Guzma, darling… I understand the sentiment, I really do, but is this really necessary now? I'm very tired..."

Gladion turned in a huff for the door. "This is ridiculous. I'm leaving."

But with a desperate swing of his arm, Guzma snagged him by the hood of his shirt, catching him before he could escape. The smaller boy fumbled backwards after the grab caused him to lose his balance; he struggled briefly and snarled epithets, but the size and strength discrepancy meant the battle was brief. Guzma hoisted him toward the kitchen, but not before informing the mother, "Lu, I gotta talk to your son, okay? Stay there. Drink your tea."

She didn't look up. "Yes, dear."

"-Let me _go_!"

Just prior to gliding into the kitchen, Guzma grabbed the satchel from the table and threw it over his shoulder. He shut the sliding door behind them.

* * *

In many ways, Gladion was the child that took after his mother the most; Guzma knew this from experiencing both of them at length, and at no time were the similarities more vivid than when they lost their temper. When either mother or son took offense, they _let you know_ , and it could be a challenge to recork that bottle.

"...Drag me around like I'm some kind of toy, if you need me to go somewhere, you only need _ask_ , there's no reason to put your hands on me…!"

Guzma took the satchel from his shoulder and placed it on the countertop next to the sink. He snuck a peek through the sliding door. Quiet. Still. He hoped this would provide the privacy they needed, but the kid would have to quit yammering first.

"...Honestly offensive, sticking your nose in private family matters that have nothing to do with you, and telling me what I should be doing, it's just none of your business…!"

Guzma interrupted his bloviating by sharply rapping a single knuckle against the top of Gladion's skull. This succeeded in shutting him up, at least momentarily―Gladion yelped, gripped his head, and prepared to launch into another indignant screed, but Guzma cut him off. "Relax, dork. That's not what I wanted you here for, anyway."

As Gladion scowled and rubbed his scalp, Guzma returned to the satchel. He unclipped the buckles and opened the leather flap, then delicately pulled out a metal case. That got replaced onto the kitchen table, and there, Gladion realized that he recognized its design. Aether transported medication and biological samples in cases just like this one. Because Guzma didn't say anything, Gladion chose to wander closer and glance past his arms; his former boss popped the case open, shuffled some papers he must have read earlier out of the way, all to reveal a sizeable, sleek injection device.

Once Gladion saw what it was, he felt dozens of questions swell in his chest. A strange feeling of dread fell over him.

Guzma meanwhile whirled around and gesticulated nervously. " _Okay_ , so…" He fidgeted with his pockets and looked appropriately embarrassed when he admitted, "Here's the thing. I don't do needles."

"What...?"

He puffed out some air. "You know. I don't… like, take to 'em, I mean I'm fine holding 'em and seeing 'em so long as they aren't being stuck to anybody, but see―look, you can't tell _anybody_ this, or I swear I'll kill you―once they start going in people, I get all dizzy in a bad way."

That was the most roundabout way Gladion had ever heard someone confess to a rather common phobia. It gave context, though, to other behavior: it explained why Guzma had always deflected questions about his tattoos (which now, everyone knew, had not been real), as well as why, despite his alternative fashion sense, he'd never gone for piercings.

"Anyway, uh, 'cuz of that, I need your help with this." In a motion so quick that Gladion could barely follow it with his eyes, Guzma snatched the device up in his hand; it was small enough to fit in his palm, but it had a vaguely-weaponized design (barrel, trigger, hand-grip, chamber) that made its wielding imposing, almost threatening. "So, basically? I'm gonna pin her, and you can..." Suddenly, he started shoving the injection device in Gladion's direction, meaning to hand it off. "Look, it's easy, you just pull on the trigger thingy―"

Like he was warding off a vile evil, Gladion lifted a hand and held the device at bay. "Wait!"

Guzma, showing some sense, paused and backed off.

"First of all―absolutely _not_ , and second―what is that?"

"I can explain after."

"No, you can explain _now_." When Guzma clammed up, a deduction struck Gladion that made him seethe. "Is… Is this what you were colluding with Mr. Faba over? A plan to drug my mother against her will?"

"It's not―!" Guzma hurried to replace the device, lest he damage it inadvertently. He shut the case and lowered his voice, motioning for Gladion to lower his as well. "...'Drugging'! Okay! It's medicine!"

That Guzma didn't deny it told Gladion everything he needed to know. He fumed, "Mr. Faba is not a physician, and he has no right to prescribe Mother any form of medication, so what _exactly_ is going on here?"

After some uncomfortable silence and shifting his feet, Guzma stole one more glance out from the sliding door, chewed the inside of his cheek, and decided he had no choice but to confide. He placed his hands deep in his pockets in his usual show of apprehension. "Your mom's sick." He maintained eye contact, no doubt expecting Gladion to express some surprise or other emotion.

But Gladion wasn't impressed. "And?"

"And! And that's it, what else do you want me to say?"

"You're going to have to be a lot more specific. Sick in what way?"

Guzma hadn't anticipated needing to explain in this amount of detail; he shifted even more nervously as he fumbled with where to start. "It's―it's complicated."

"Fortunately, I have time."

Guzma looked about the kitchen. He saw no reasonable way to force the issue out of hand, so he conceded in the only way he could think of: with a heavy groan and a motioning for the kitchen table. When Gladion obliged and took a seat, Guzma's new hospitality training kicked in. He eyed the tea kettle. "Uh, you want tea?"

"I'd rather just get on with it."

"...Right." Guzma froze in thought, then shook. Despite not being a habitual tea-drinker like his fiancee, he desperately wanted something to do with his hands, so he poured himself a cup and gripped the tiny piece of china inelegantly with his oversized fingers. Then, he sat.

* * *

"It's 'cause of what happened in Ultra Space," Guzma finally said. He hadn't drank his tea yet, but tapped his fingertips on the table surface around it.

"...You mean the encounter with the Nihilego?"

Guzma cocked his head to the side before remembering that Gladion hadn't been there. "Uh, yeah, that. See, they got this nasty poison in them―I got hit with it, knocked me out for a couple days… But she got it worse than I did. Like, five or six of them got to her… I guess she was down for a couple weeks. And even when I got there, after catching the beasts, she was still way out of it…"

"This was all months ago," Gladion noted. "Are you suggesting there are some residual effects?"

"...It's more like… It's still in her."

Gladion wondered if this was conjecture on Guzma's part, but it sounded rehearsed, like the man was reporting findings that weren't his own. Gladion's thoughts went in wild directions; he couldn't decide what question to voice first. In the meanwhile, he weighed the evidence and shook his head in astonishment. "I hope you can appreciate how _unbelievable_ that is."

Guzma misread this as an accusation. "I'm not lying!"

"Aether has an excellent medical team. How could her doctors have missed something so glaring?"

"They _didn't._ " Guzma lowered his voice again, now paranoid that they could be overheard. "I talked to her nurses. After we got out, they helicoptered her back to Aether, right? But she woke up, and wouldn't take anything. Her doctors told her what she needed, and she just wouldn't…"

This, of what Guzma had said so far, made the most sense. Gladion remembered her disposition when she returned to Aether Paradise, crippled and barely conscious from the ordeal she suffered in Ultra Space. Upon seeing that her son had seized temporary control of the foundation with her absence, she reamed into her subordinates (in particular Faba, whom she labeled a weak-hearted turncoat for capitulating so easily) and ordered him to leave. Gladion pleaded with her. _Let me take care of things, at least until you recover_. But Lusamine was not interested in help.

"I don't know why she did that," Guzma continued sorrowfully. "But she hid it from me. Hid it from everybody."

"All right," Gladion sighed. "How long have you known about this?"

Guzma thought on his answer with care. "It's been… Maybe a week. When I got back from Mele'mele, and she was just like before… All out of it, y'know? I thought there's gotta be more to it… So I looked around best I could without her knowing."

Gladion wondered if Guzma had really been so astute, or if Faba had helped him along. Certainly, the scientist's fingerprints were all over the medical technology currently resting between them on the tabletop. To confirm his suspicions, he threw out the name: "And Faba?"

"Mr. Faba?" Guzma frowned and clutched his tea cup. "He, uh, helped. I mean, he made this―" He pointed at the medical case. "It's antitoxin for the Nihilego poison. He thinks it'll help."

"'Thinks'?"

"Dude," Guzma barked, rankled by his skepticism, "he just _finished_ it this morning. It's not like we had a lotta time to test it, okay?"

"...I see." As signs of Guzma's agitation increased, so did Gladion's worries. It wasn't even Lusamine's condition that worried him the most; seeing Guzma eyeball the case like it was some sacred object, a point of redemption… Gladion folded his arms tightly against his chest. "You might have told us _earlier_."

"Um." This proved a difficult point. Guzma fidgeted. "I didn't… I didn't wanna freak ya out… Originally I was gonna tell you when we got back to Aether…"

After a moment's thinking, Gladion realized what he meant. "You were going to let us move back in with our mother without knowing!?"

"Hey, I kinda thought the problem would be _dealt with_ by then," Guzma said lamely.

With a rub to his forehead and a groan, Gladion chose to move past that infuriating point. "What sort of supposed 'symptoms' is she suffering from? Of what I've seen of her, she appears to be her usual… Unpleasant self."

Guzma did not exhibit any desire to speak on that. He chose that moment to funnel tea into his mouth and stay worriedly silent.

"...Seems to me whatever 'symptoms' you're seeing could easily be aspects of her personality."

" _Hearing voices_ ain't personality," Guzma said firmly. " _Seeing things that ain't there_ ain't personality."

 _Hallucinations_. Guzma had let that much slip. But Gladion shrugged, his tone cold. "Maybe her conscience is catching up with her."

"You can't say it's normal."

"I'd never call Mother 'normal...' I won't deny that a part of her problem is some sort of illness, but that's it―a _part._ "

All of Gladion's skepticism at last drove Guzma to his last nerve; the man brought down his fists on both sides of his teacup, rattling it and the table. He hissed, distraught: "But you don't think she deserves a chance to get better!?"

Gladion was taken aback, but sadly not all that surprised by the outburst. Despite everything she had put him through―and Gladion could only guess at what Guzma had endured at the hands of his mother―the man still had that dopey, loyal demeanor of a kicked dog. Gladion tried to let him down gently. "I've known this woman all my life. Certainly longer than you have. I don't know what you're expecting… But if you're placing your hopes in some wonder drug… you're setting yourself up for disappointment."

Through a pained moment of silence, the tension felt ready to peak. Gladion almost suspected he was about to be assaulted for his honesty. But slowly, Guzma's expression changed. He cocked his head to the side and looked into the deep well of undrinked tea. "I'm not _stupid_ ," he mumbled. "I know she's not gonna… Magically become a good person. She's not gonna wake up tomorrow and all of a sudden…" (An unsaid thing rested at the tip of his tongue; he wouldn't say it.) "...She's still gonna be messed up. But even if it's almost nothing―it could be just one percent of what's screwing with her―isn't it worth it?"

Gladion almost― _almost_ ―let himself feel touched by Guzma's reckless, childlike belief in doing the right thing. Gladion hadn't expected it from him. This man had made his living as a cynic; as the boss of Team Skull, he had preached vehemently against the values that had preyed upon him as a child: notions of self-sacrifice, putting others before oneself, doing right even when it hurts. _Do what you want,_ he had countered. _Forget the suckers; take what you want for yourself; if you don't get anything out of it, don't bother._

...Had it been a veneer? Or had Guzma changed that much in his outlook?

In any case, the reality of the situation soured any of Gladion's positive feelings. He didn't buy this sob story. Did Mother's manipulation know no boundaries? Was she so cunning and vile, that she would neglect her own well-being to ensure others would take care of her…? Or perhaps she clung to the illness because she liked how it felt, nor liked how it eased her cruelty? She would sooner allow her brain to melt than give her fate over to anyone else, or permit anyone to leave her…

And _Guzma_ , the boy thought, was no better. An idiot who was enamored with the thought of being a hero, despite having neither the wits or the means. The man figured out Lusamine was ill, and _still_ tried to invite her estranged children back into the household. He _still_ went ahead with the wedding, in spite of―or was it _because_ of?―his discovery.

Gladion wanted to scream in his face. But what good would that do? Guzma was too much like Lusamine; he took criticism personally. He played the victim. He would sulk and retort and pretend that he had the best intentions, and promptly shut out any wisdom Gladion had to offer.

So Gladion swallowed and said in plain honesty, "I get the sense you _mean_ well. And of course, if there's something truly wrong with her, I'd like it resolved, but… This isn't the way to do it. You can't use this to excuse her. You can't force her to get better." Miraculously, Guzma remained silent and attentive, so Gladion jumped at the chance to further plead: "If you think it's worth it, then _convince_ her."

* * *

When the two emerged from the kitchen, their demeanor had changed. Gladion walked in front and Guzma followed after, his posture slumped with resignation. After Gladion left―and he did so wordlessly―Guzma was left with a troubling quiet stirred only by the occasional whine of the storm's wind.

He thought, fixing a fingernail against his front teeth.

Lusamine had yet to call for him, so he plodded across the suite only to find she had nestled against a pillow and fallen asleep. His gut crawled. Rain pounded the exterior walls and windows like angry fists.

He checked his watch, but he already knew it was late. He sighed.

Instead of shaking her awake to interrogate or argue with her, he circulated the suite, shutting off lights and replacing the medical satchel over his shoulder. Finally, he reached the bedside area and shut off its overhead light. He had planned on leaving discreetly, but the bag at his hip bumped into the end table and rattled the table and lamp. He lunged to steady it too late; Lusamine sucked in a heavy breath.

"...Guzma?"

He muffled a curse.

She rolled to face him, mumbling; he would have thought she was babbling in her sleep, except that she said, "Are you leaving already…?"

Guzma turned the lamp on, rather than continue the conversation in the dark. The warm light fell over her face, giving it a more healthy, vibrant color than before; she blinked slowly up at him, now seeing the concern etched in his face.

"You were talking for so long," she mewled, stretching and yawning under the covers. "I must have drifted off…"

Though he hesitated, he gave in to the impulse to reach out and brush a few strands of hair from her face. He let his fingers linger a little at the warmth of her forehead. "If you stayed asleep like this earlier, we wouldn't'a had all this trouble."

Lusamine accepted his griping as a small joke; a hand poked out from the covers to cover her mouth as she smiled. "Oh… I suppose that's true…" She noticed his pensive look. "Were you discussing me?"

His eyebrows furrowed.

"It's alright… I know there's not much else for you to talk about…"

In his panic, he glanced at the end table. Her teacup was empty―at least she did that much. He also saw Mismagius' pokeball, which implied she had tired of its company and put it away. That worried him more. He fixed his hand at her brow again and asked anxiously, "How you feeling? You got a headache or anything?"

"I'm not at death's door," she scoffed. "You needn't fuss over me."

"Then I better go," he concluded, drawing his hand back. "Let you get your beauty sleep, huh?"

Contrary to his suggestion, however, he didn't leave straight away. He stood over her a while, lips taut together, eyes watching her, fingers picking at the bag's leather strap.

"Guzma... ?" Lusamine let her head fall to its side; she breached the silence with a dim smile. She mistook his apprehension for something more flirtatious than he intended, so she cooed, "Why are you looking at me like that…?"

"Uh-h." Guzma fumbled for the lamp's switch. "N-nothin'. I mean, it can wait. I'll―see ya tomorrow. 'Night."

When the blackness of night fell upon them again, she expected, or at least wanted, the reassurance of a goodnight kiss. But he had other things on his mind. He shuffled back through the dark like a passing shadow at her feet. And once he was gone for good, she was left to travel down paths of memory, still sizzling like faded lightning bolts across her scalp. They tickled and stung.

Her eyes traced the window panes, looking out where the midnight sky churned with storm-clouds and rain. The fractal patterns swirling in the din might have escaped someone else, but she followed their fray and calculated the breaking off of particles and moisture.

She shut her eyes at last.

In sleep, other shadows chased her down.

* * *

That following morning, the clouds hadn't fully broken, nor had the gloomy atmosphere lifted. The breeze turned biting and cruel in the storm's aftermath.

But in spite of the sunless awakening, Lusamine felt better. She was able to, with more strength than usual, sit herself up and climb out of bed. If she tried to think of the events of the previous night, they felt distant and obscured, like fading dreams. Even the emotions tied with them―the deep despair, the loneliness, the desire to throw herself away―felt alien to her now under the milky light of the overcast sky.

In these months, Lusamine had gotten used to the pattern of nightfall accompanying hard swings in mood. As much as the turmoil disrupted her life, it always melted away with proper rest; now that she finally slept, she could dust herself off and march into the day with some confidence, even some cheer.

She went to her luggage and began to draw out as assortment of dresses to choose from.

Her wedding was cancelled.

That thought snapped through her brain, but she was determined not to let it bother her. She spent all yesterday stewing on it, and what good had that done?

The festivities had been interrupted, that was true. But Lusamine had not reached her current position by dwelling on minor deviations from her plans. As she looked over her wardrobe, she took stock of her standing advantages: she had the cruise ship, with which she could do as she pleased; she had the crew and all the services they could provide; they had liquor and food aplenty; the grunts were rowdy, but not beyond taming…

And Guzma.

She still had Guzma.

When all the dust settles and they return to Aether Paradise, his dogged loyalty to her will not change. A lack of a wedding is not a lack of a marriage, not when she can summon judges and lawyers at a moment's notice.

The situation was an inconvenience, a bother, a strain on her psychological health―but not unsalvageable.

Of her dresses, she chose the most scandalous.

* * *

Because so little had changed since yesterday, many of the sights she witnessed were bold echoes: Nanu, not looking at her, puffed a cigarette over the railing; the occasional pokemon and grunt shot out into the open, only to skitter away at the sight of her; and the dining hall, once she arrived, looked like it hadn't changed at all. Children had congregated there with nothing to do, and so returned to their prior act of trashing breakfast and abusing the staff. For a moment, Lusamine actually felt a hint of gratitude and wonder that the kitchen staff continued to put out meals, despite their efforts being so thoroughly wasted.

As she stepped over an abandoned crepe, she felt all eyes on her. And why shouldn't they be? She smoothly adjusted the black, sleek dress where its cut rested high at her thighs and low at her chest; she strode on pronounced heels with confidence. With a flash of a cherub-like smile, she meant to tell them that all their antics could not touch her. If she sought pleasure―pleasure she would find.

One grunt, passing too close, was greeted with a pat on the head and a purr. The boy hurried away in alarm.

"Good morning, dears."

A whole table of boys gaped at her and reduced their commentary to whispers. The rest of the children in the hall steadily gave her their attention, though the chatter did not fully fade, as they noticed her change in countenance and knew it meant something. After glancing about, Lusamine determined that neither Guzma nor her children were nearby. That would suit her just fine, for the time being.

"I hope you all had a restful night."

She stood at the front and center of the hall, clearly taking a position of authority. It agitated them. A number of them turned their bodies back to the tables, where they had already decimated some breakfast foods.

Undeterred, she tapped a finger to her lips in thought. She came upon a decision. "I need to speak with 'Buzz.' Is he here?"

The grunts looked about uncertainly, like they were pondering the ethics of handing over one of their own.

"He's not in any trouble; I only need his help," she reassured them.

This comment confused them more, but it did finally rouse a snicker, murmur, and thud as a sleepy boy trundled out from the group, followed by his Meowth. His hair stuck out, uncombed, and he overall looked rather unimpressive; he squeaked in his disbelief, as if he knew this. "Who, me?"

She voiced impatiently, "Yes, yes. Come along now."

Buzz had to contemplate whether to comply, and earnestly searched his friends' expressions for their opinion on the matter. They seemed neither perturbed nor worried. He shrugged and scratched the back of his head. "Uh. What for?"

"I told you already; I have a task for you."

She said it with such brazen confidence that he couldn't argue against it. At her beckoning, he followed her to the kitchen.

* * *

All children, Lusamine knew, crave the same thing. No matter the pretensions of rebellion they put on, they want direction.

So Team Skull did not worry her. They might be rambunctious, wild, and destructive, but after two days stuck on a ship, their aimlessness was palpable, and she was ready and willing to use it.

The boy called Buzz was a prime example; she merely had to hint that she had purpose for him, and he went for it, lulled by her apparent authority and her promise of meaning. He pounced at every bit of attention she gave him; he jumped at every dictate.

"Get those plates stacked."

"Be careful with those."

"Now, fetch those dessert forks… The small ones, not the larger kind…"

"Are you ready with the cart?"

...

"...Lady?"

She looked up. In all the busyness, she hadn't heard a peep out of the boy, nor out of the lone chef who let them in and currently stood by, looking disapproving of their activity. The grunt had just finished lifting a tray of cutlery onto a cart, and after admiring the subject of their work, he scratched his ear nervously.

"I thought _you_ said eatin' cake for breakfast was bad for you."

She counted the plates to ensure they had enough. "Ah… So I did… A motherly fib, dear. Even if it were true, I think Team Skull will risk the stomachache, don't you think?"

He accepted her explanation. He sounded pleased. "Yeah… You right." He paused, fidgeted again. "Uh… It's real pretty."

Buzz meant it as a well-meaning compliment, but it stung more than would like to admit. Lusamine had to convince the chef to release the cake from the locked walk-in cooler, as the pastry was by far the most expensive food item on the ship, but after wheeling it out, she could hardly stand to look at it. The work that went into it. The planning, and design, and decisions, and… Its towering stature, its ivory, smooth royal icing, laced with intricate designs that could only be appreciated up-close, leaves and vines and flower petals, painted with the most fine gold accents―the entire piece was drenched with beauty and delicacy.

She almost took back her decision. But it was no use. She was certainly not taking it home, and leaving it on the ship meant relinquishing her control over it; if she let go of it, the crew would decide its fate, not her.

Better to make the best of what she had.

* * *

By the time Guzma arrived, dressed only in a white t-shirt and jeans to signify how much he cared about his appearances anymore, he entered the hall in time to witness the peculiar near-aftermath. It actually took him considerable time to take in and process the sight:

Most already had their dessert plates in hand, and so had returned to their tables to either pick at with forks or, after flinging the cutlery to the floor, consuming it with their fingers. The remaining youth crowded near the cake but dared not touched it; Lusamine had claimed enough control of the grunts to enforce sufficient line formation and behavior. She held the cutting knife, after all, and the implied threat along with it.

Still, the kids didn't appear afraid. They were giggly and loud. They poked one another and argued and groped for their treat, dodging the playful swipes of a Meowth hiding beneath the cart. One boy even appeared to have been enlisted, as he was busy handing her plates.

Lusamine didn't notice Guzma approaching, but a few of the grunts in line did. Frozen, they eyed him, like they thought they had been caught in something illicit. He passed his glance over them and sealed his gaze on her back. He puzzled for a while, then spoke.

"Morning."

Her shoulders straightened and she turned around. Bewilderingly, she flashed him a warm smile, frosting-laced knife in hand. "Oh! Good morning."

"What's, uh…" Without smiling back, Guzma looked her over. "What's going on? I stopped by your room. I was about to―"

"It was going to waste," she blurted aloud. As soon as he started to speak, she felt a rush of words overcome her until her hands shook. "I can't stand anything going to waste, you know, and―I know I should have waited for you, and I would have, so we could cut it together; but the children, they were hungry and rather impatient, I didn't think you'd mind―"

She didn't realize how quickly she was speaking until Guzma lifted his hands in surrender. "Hey! Alright! Fine. It's… fine." He lowered his hands, but resumed staring at her like she was some alien lifeform. His voice suddenly edged with concern. "Are you feelin' okay?"

(What had he spotted in her…? To make him say something like that…? She felt herself trembling and stiffening.) "Of, of course I'm feeling―"

One of the grunts in line became impatient with the couple and interrupted them with whining.

"O-oh, just a moment, dear, I'm sorry…"

When Lusamine returned to the cake serving, her hands were noticeably more shaky. She handed a slice to the complaining grunt, but dished up another and turned around.

"Here. You ought to have some. You're the groom, after all."

He took it but didn't seem persuaded. He squinted at her, nearly ready to say something to her face, though he didn't get it out before she went back to her task. He sighed and relented. "Careful, Miss L," he warned, joking but not concealing his wariness. "Feed 'em once, and they'll follow you around like puppies."

"Oh?" She didn't look up, instead continuing to cut slices for plating. "Speaking from experience?"

He snorted. "A bit. Look, I'm gonna sit. Come with me?"

"When I'm done."

Guzma shook his head, sighed, and found a nearby empty table where he could sit. He didn't eat, but watched her keenly from afar to track her every move.

Word must have reached other groups of grunts on the ship, because soon after, a new crowd of teens and their pokemon breached the hall, sniffing and prowling for food. They spotted the cake and descended on it and Lusamine like a roving pack of animals, and Guzma almost felt the urge to stand and come to her aid, but he caught sight of Gladion among them.

He waved to him frantically to draw his attention and, once he got it, direct him to his table.

Gladion did approach, but he didn't drop his bewildered gaping at the scene. He didn't have his Silvally out for once, but a sharp-eyed Weavile followed him. Its red feathers fanned out in a cautious display. "Mr. Guzma, what…?"

"Just be cool," Guzma exhorted. "I don't know why either."

Gladion finally turned toward him. He screwed up his eyes. "Did you convince her to do this?"

"Nope."

"...You don't look very happy about this."

Rather than reply, Guzma grumbled and shifted himself toward the table, hunkering down to pretend to eat.

Gladion tried to read his posture―got nothing―and was about to excuse himself when an unexpected hand touched his shoulder.

The boy leaped right out of his skin and scurried around, ready to fight.

"Oh! Goodness."

When he saw it was his mother, his instinct to defend himself only heightened; he nearly tripped as he fumbled a step backward to create more distance, as she had appeared far too close behind him.

His nerves, though, didn't affect her composure at all. She stood very still, perhaps a little more pale than usual, her hair flat, her face carefully crafted with cover and blush. She was far over-dressed for the occasion, and in heels, she had returned to a height safely taller than her son (without them, he was close to outgrowing her). Rather than give him a look of contempt, as he had come to expect of her, she appeared startled, even a bit touched with fear.

"Well…" She attempted to smile (but failed) and drew her hand back. "Aren't you jittery this morning…"

Befuddled and in shock, Gladion couldn't get words out. He finally saw the plate in her hand with a neatly-cut slice of cake at the ready.

"...Would you like some?"

It was an innocuous yet completely baffling offer. Gladion at last was able to scoff and cock an eyebrow at her. "It depends what's in it," he said, implying he wouldn't eat anything she had the chance to contaminate.

Lusamine turned her head to examine the cake and pretend to think on his question with care. She then said, "White cake with a strawberry jam filling."

He was uncomfortable with the bland tone in her answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Guzma trying to avoid notice and shovel food in his mouth to look occupied. The boy waffled. "I think I'll pass. I'm not much for sweets."

Guzma hastily swallowed and gruffed, "What, are you watchin' your figure or somethin'? Have some cake."

Though Gladion was about to snap at him (Guzma had gotten, he decided, all too-familiar with him as of late), the joke slacked the tension enough that Lusamine was able to pop with a small, breathy laugh. She placed the plate on the table. "In case you change your mind. Or perhaps you can give it to your little friend, here…" She bent down and gave the Weavile a daring, but gentle scratch to its forehead.

She went for it so quickly that Gladion didn't have a chance to stop her, and by the time he would have been able to tell her off, the touch was over and she moved toward Guzma.

Her fiance, defeated, allowed her to stand behind him and wind her arms about his neck while he sat; she burbled sweet talk and placed kisses on his cheek, adding up to a rather disgusting, flagrant display of affection.

Guzma didn't look swayed, but he didn't shove her off. He eyed his cake piece and assaulted it with bored jabs from his fork. "Not in front of the kids, huh?"

She mewed, squeezed around his shoulders, and stroked his jawline. "Darling, when I'm around you, I can't help myself."

Though Guzma rolled his eyes, there was a small crack in his facade; his eyebrows twitched and he joked, voice thin, "Yeah―that's me―irresistible." He finally noticed Gladion's transparent look of condemnation and choked out an excuse. "Hey. You better get back over there, Miss L; can't trust those boneheads with a knife."

"Yes… Quite right. I almost forgot." She smiled, dizzy with whimsy, and floated away like a leaf caught in the wind.

* * *

Gladion stared at Guzma long and hard. At the table, his Weavile had begun poking at the edge with its claws, groping curiously for the unattended cake slice. Gladion relented and gave up custody of the treat. He then sat, but couldn't sit still; he turned his body to look over his shoulder. He watched his mother buzz about, making offerings to the children and other hungry creatures, and appearing quite calm.

"Okay," he said, turning back to face the older boy. He spoke flatly. "What did you do with our mother?"

Guzma, exasperated, massaged his forehead with a pained and sour expression. "I _didn't_ ―" He slumped and sighed. "When she gets bad… She gets like this sometimes, the morning after. Warm an' fuzzy as a Torchic. Everything's great, loves me, loves everybody, it's all rainbows." With a dour face, he mangled his cake with his fork. Bitterly, he added, "It'll pass."

"Euphoria." The word jumped from Gladion's lips; he pondered it a second. "It's another symptom, you mean… So she's still sick? The treatment didn't work?"

"Huh?" Guzma locked gazes with him, then winced. "Uh, no― No, didn't get around to it yet."

"You didn't do it last night?"

"I'm about to do it," Guzma grouched. "Why do you think I came down here!? She ducked out of her room 'fore I could get to her."

Even though it had been Guzma's idea, and Guzma had sworn his allegiance to the plan the night before, Gladion was not entirely surprised that the man had chickened out. Guzma likely knew he didn't have the rhetorical skills to convince Lusamine into a treatment she'd eschewed until now. He must have spent the night agonizing over his strategy… And now she flitted about like a butterfly: no substance, just beauty and paper wings.

Perhaps this was Guzma's plan all along. Wait until she's too weak or feeble-minded to put up a fight.

Gladion decided to force his thought in a different direction. "How often is she like this?"

"Uh... Definitely not every day. Maybe… Every couple days. Lasts the morning, usually; she gets cleared up pretty quick."

"She looks content."

Guzma didn't agree; he grimaced. "...Weirds me out, t'be honest."

"Has that occurred to you? That the treatment will put a stop to these episodes, too? It might take away some pain, but it'll take away the only bright spots. The 'warm and fuzzy' as you call it."

Apparently, the conundrum did not bother Guzma at all, because he immediately answered, "I don't care. I want her to be herself."

Gladion thought, _Even if 'herself' is intolerable?_ Guzma seemed to have more pure values than he did on the matter; if Gladion could find a drug to render the woman docile and sweet, he might put in for a lifetime supply.

* * *

For the remainder of breakfast, things were actually exceptionally calm. Their hunger sated and their attitudes eased, the grunts chattered, some lingering at the tables and others slinking their way out. If Lusamine's purpose in all this was to buy favor, then her efforts had at best mixed results, with assorted children greeting, pestering, and avoiding her. And despite their ravenous work, the cake had not been consumed in its entirety, so the pastry, maimed and marred, was abandoned at the front of the hall.

But contrary to her earlier promise, Lusamine didn't return to Guzma once the serving finished. In fact, she didn't serve herself. She planted the knife deep in the open flesh of the cake, burying the entirety of the blade into the soft body. Her trembling from earlier only grew, and she snapped her hand back suddenly, as if the knife's handle had become too painful to hold.

Without a word to anyone, she tried to leave in secret. She only failed because Buzz was still with her, and the boy noisily questioned her when she reached the door and slipped out.

She got as far as the railing before she stopped to catch her breath. The cold air hissed over the bow of the ship and freckled her face with misty moisture. The clouds still smothered the overhead sky in grey and gloomy form, but sunlight began to peak through the cracks, sending threads of white, ethereal light down on the sea. The surface of her arms prickled in the cold.

A warm hand reached her and smoothed out her goosebumps. "Hey."

She knew the voice. The waves rippled with the dim spots of light, and she felt mildly dizzy at watching them. So she shut her eyes and answered the question he didn't ask. "I had… a queer feeling, all of a sudden."

"Yeah?" Guzma's hand moved up toward her shoulder, where her skin also started to turn rigid with chill. He didn't ask permission, but pressed close to her side in an attempt to shield her from the worst of the wind. "You okay now?"

"It passed." Instinctively, her body curled inward, allowing herself to be absorbed into the shape of his arms. "It's going to be a beautiful day. The clouds will be gone soon, with the wind… And the sun will be out…"

"Sounds… uh, good."

She turned her head to look at him. He wore a perplexed and still concerned look, so she put a hand on his. "You were right," she explained. "We have no one to impress… We ought to enjoy what we have for now. We can make do." As she spoke, her words tensed, like she was more trying to convince herself than him. "I've hosted worse guests than these. We'll throw a little something―bring up everyone's spirits a bit."

"...Oh. So you were…" Guzma took her suggestion and accepted it as well-meaning, if a tad delusional. "A blow-out party, huh?"

"At this point, what else can we do?"

He didn't want to damper her induced optimism, but he couldn't leave it unchecked, either. He sighed. "Lu, you oughtta know… The captain says we're heading back to Aether. We'll get there by tomorrow morning."

"Then―" The time restraint alarmed her. She hurriedly feigned enthusiasm. "Then we don't have much time. We should open our presents."

"Presents?"

"Of course," she rambled desperately. "They're locked away in the staff's quarters; they should all still be intact."

This was the first time he'd heard about them. But Guzma could think of few things he dreaded more than the thought of sitting and sorting through an endless pile of expensive, wrapped baubles that neither of them needed. "Yeah, we _could_ ," he said, making a face that conveyed his feelings, " _or_ , we could do anything else."

"Our guests spent a lot of time, thought, and money―"

As the thought struck him, he interrupted: "You know, actually… I got a present for you."

She looked up at him, moon-eyed. Surprise made her utter softly, "I don't need anything from you."

"Don't knock it 'til you know what it is," he told her, forcing a smile as he did. He was trying to stay upbeat to prolong her good mood, which he hoped to use to his own advantage.

She played along. "Oh… A secret, then. Will I like it?"

"Well… I think you need it."

* * *

Lusamine sat in utter silence.

Because there it was.

And she didn't, wouldn't, couldn't understand it.

It took only a few minutes for Guzma to retrieve the leather case from his room and meet her back in her suite. Guzma had her sit in a chair, and he sat on the opposite side with the coffee table between them. He dumped the leather case there in the center and, without actually opening it, explained everything in his unscientific yet unambiguous style.

Too many feelings passed through her as she listened: disgust, a plummeting in her stomach, nausea, anger, despondence.

Above all, she felt grossly misled. When he first said he had a gift for her, she expected something personal, maybe even intimate. But this was beyond intimate. This was… _violating_. Guzma had rummaged through her blood without permission. He had come to grand and overwhelming conclusions about her health and mental state. And _Faba_ , too, no doubt had peeked at her medical records in the process of aiding and abetting her fiance's violation of privacy. If he wasn't already leaving of his own accord, she'd have the scientist's head for it.

She felt a powerful urge to cry; her eyes pricked and swelled, but she blinked them back in pain. The cloud of sweet comfort that had followed her all that morning melted in the heat of the breaking sunlight. The room was dark and her heart was dark and even _he_ seemed more like a shadow than a person in that moment.

...Words were spoken. It took a second for her to realize that the words were actually addressing her, and actually meant something.

"So, you understand it all, right?"

Guzma was looking straight at her, all hope and strain. He kept waiting for her to have an answer to his questions, but she was lost in a fog and couldn't hope to stitch words together. She noticed then her hands rested on her lap, and they felt like useless stumps there, just mounds of strangely-shaped flesh that she couldn't manipulate in any way. Acid in her throat. Jelly legs. Fuzzy head. Nothing worked.

When Guzma realized she wasn't going to reply to him, he kept going. "Why wouldn't you let them treat you before?"

Instinctively, Lusamine drew her arms about her stomach. Still, she said nothing.

"You were sick," he insisted. "So why…"

"I'm not sick."

Guzma stopped, stunned by her first words.

She couldn't hold back the bitterness she felt; she seethed and sank into her seat. "You… You're the ones who are sick."

"Uh…" Guzma, realizing now that she did not speak from a stable mindset, hesitated to argue too strongly. "What are you talking about?"

"Simpleton," she said, sneering. As she withdrew, she pulled her feet from the floor and crouched with her knees against her chest. Anger shook her voice. "Is this what you think of me? A poor, sick madwoman? You don't even know what you're talking about. You say you want to 'cure'? 'Treat'?" She lowered her tone to a hateful whisper. "But you mean 'kill'... That's what they meant, too: to kill them."

"'Kill'-?" In his alarm, he reached out to touch her; she recoiled and pushed him away, and he panicked. "I don't―who's 'they'?"

And before she could filter her thoughts to be precise and vague, she said what she really thought, slurring between tears: "My darlings. My babies."

* * *

Guzma misunderstood, especially because she clutched her stomach as if in pain when she cried, but his confusion last only for a fraction of a second.

"The… the toxin…"

* * *

Her dark company; the inner chorus of voices that came to her in the night and never let go. The doctors told her they had potions that would wipe the little ones out, but what kind of brutes would endorse such cruelty? They weren't hurting anyone. They filled her empty spaces and wriggled through her veins. Besides, even though they cried out loudly at first, drowning out her thoughts, over time they quieted, crept into corners, and didn't make much fuss.

…Didn't understand. Those barbarians didn't understand what it's like, to be a mother.

...To be filled with squirming, throbbing life, only for it to force itself out, to leave her empty, hollow, alone. And not only that, but she had to endure that pattern of agony more than once: again, and again...

...And again…

But now, she had another chance to give life by leasing out her flesh and blood and hosting the defenseless, to be Mother to All.

* * *

Guzma, as a man, of course didn't comprehend it, either. He spoke breathlessly. "They're not babies, Miss L."

"No, they're better," she snarled. She groped about, sobbing, but couldn't find any object firm or large enough to use as a weapon against such slander. "There's no leaving with them; no heartbreak."

"They're _parasites_! How can you pick _poison_ over your actual kids!?"

Almost as immediately as he yelled it, he regretted the tone he had taken with her; Lusamine sprang to her feet and lashed out, first by swinging her fists and missing, then by retreating to her bed to collapse and weep.

For a time, Guzma allowed her to exhaust herself, rather than immediately risk being swung at again. He thought the best he could on the matter, but he was no expert in psychology, and he had no way to pick apart her resistance. He did, however, circle about the coffee table and drag the leather satchel along with him. He got to the bed and considered comforting her, but instead gave her a few more moments to find calm. Once her breathing steadied, he stood over her and thought aloud. "You keep talking about how you wanna have kids with me. But what's gonna happen? When you got a baby inside you, along with all that poison? What'll happen to our―"

She interrupted his astonishingly sound logic with a pitiful moan. "How can you be so awful? Why do you do this to me? Why do you torment me? I give, and I give, and you're never happy with me..."

"I want you to get better."

She planted her face deep in the bed cover and sniffled. "You want a sweet, quiet, weak, obedient doormat of a wife, who just does as she's told."

He sighed and ignored her maligning. "...I want you… To stop doin' this to yourself."

With that, and no more additional explanation, he tossed the satchel onto the bed, rifled through it, and presented the injection device within easy reach.

"C'mon, Miss L," he said. He didn't want to plead, but this was what he was resorting to. "It'll be easy, and then it'll be over. And then…" He hesitated. "We can talk about our getting married."

Guzma didn't feel good for pulling on that string to get cooperation, but it worked. It was like he had zapped her back to life; she stiffened and rolled her face up at him, her expression puffy and hopeful.

"Please?"

Despite her earlier protests and complaints, in truth, her allegiance to her hosted colony had waned in recent weeks. The oncoming wedding had played no small role in this; Guzma's constant presence made theirs all the less significant. And now, Guzma wore such a heartfelt look full of loyalty: how could she deny him anything? She would cut off her own arm, if it meant the swearing of his love. The last, sputtering gasp of her euphoric state, before it was obliterated by too many waking hours, pushed her to sit up teary-eyed and cooing. She groped at him and pulled on his shirt, until he took the hint and sat down next to her so that she could succumb to her messy passions. "Oh… Oh… Darling… Anything… I'll do anything..."

( _Anything to make you love me; anything to prevent you from leaving me_.)

Lusamine had to administer the antitoxin herself; Guzma was too cowardly to even watch. There was hesitation, even a faint impulse to deceive―he wasn't looking, she could fake it―but by the time the injection device was in her hand, something blackened and bitter had nestled in her heart. She was able to use it, this hate, this sudden desire to wipe out a path of fate, and direct it like a punishment against herself.

A gurgling at the back of her brain suggested: _you deserve to be alone_.

It stung, but only for a second. A chill swelled at the injection point, and when that passed, her anger bubbled back up from her stomach. She threw the device onto the floor as if it had betrayed her, and she fell back face-down onto the bed again.

* * *

In her tantrum, she imagined the serum would burn the life out of her. That in a flash, there would be pain, rush, and revolution. But nothing happened. The seconds trailed by and she felt no different.

Somehow, he read her confusion and reassured her, "Mr. Faba said it might take a couple days for it to really do its job."

Of course.

How silly it all seemed now. Like a passing dream, with its laws and logic melting away in the clear light of morning. She could have spent her days chasing after the evanescent joys and ecstasies promised by the little creatures bouncing through her bloodstream; she could have pursued those painted images and smokey paths to their dark end. But they lacked substance against the hard, warm impact of a daughter's hand or a lover's face.

Nevertheless, the decision had fatigued her. She could hardly move, even as Guzma busied himself picking up the device and cleaning away the small, scarlet strand of blood at her arm. To distract himself from his nerves, he nattered, "Yeah, in a couple days… You'll be back to normal, you'll see."

Even if that was true, she couldn't hope to remember what 'normal' felt like.

Guzma hoisted her up against her weakness and exhaustion, eventually propping her against his seated body. She slumped into his shoulder and chest. She thought for a moment that sleep would steal her away, as grogginess fell on her without much warning, but he stimulated her with a tense squeeze at her hand and a reminder. "Do you still wanna marry me?"

Her eyes slipped out, past him and out the window where the light danced free. She hadn't expected that question to come out in that way, but her answer came effortlessly out, without searching or agonizing. "You know that I do," she murmured.

"But…"

Lusamine felt his body deflate as a long breath left him.

"You know... we _shouldn't_ get married, right?"

The floor fell out under her.

She flailed wildly, air roaring around her; she tried in vain to grab hold of something, anything, to stop her from plowing into the center of the earth. Nothing. Nothing.

"I…"

Her palms hit gravel at landing, shredding into ribbons.

"I don't know." Was that the best she could come up with? When everything was falling apart? She floundered. "I thought you wanted it. You don't want it…?"

He rejected the premise. " _Want to_ … It's different than _should_."

She felt sick. He had _tricked_ her. It wasn't _fair_.

"Just think it through. If we marry, you know how it'll end. Don't you?"

...The truth was, she didn't. She didn't allow herself to imagine their future together in any material way; she kept her imaginings symbolic, abstract. A poem. A picture on a wall. A silhouette. If Lusamine ever tried to consider the day-to-day realities that she knew marriage bore, she couldn't.

Guzma went on, keeping his voice plodding and unemotional. "We got a lot in common. And not the right kind of things. I realized that… We're both nutcases, if we're being honest. We got problems… And when I think about that, I think, we won't last two minutes."

"All this," she wailed. She buried her fingers into his chest, but in her grief, she was too clumsy to find her grip. "After all this, you're going to abandon me!? Just like the others, just like everyone―!?"

"No!" He gripped her arms to still her and morosely shook his head. "I can't leave you. If I left… It wouldn't change nothin'. You'd blame me, you'd stay the same, you wouldn't face up to anything… You'd be all alone, and worse off for it."

For a glimpse, she thought she saw her future coalesce. Hope returned.

Then he broke it. He looked right at her, even cupped her face with his hands in a rare show of gentleness, and broke her hope: "You gotta be the one to tell me to go."

...

"If you ask me to stay and marry you, I'll do it. But you know it's not right. You _know_."

…

"So I want this―to be up to you."

Lusamine fought with every bit of her strength to untangle herself from him. To get away from him, as far as possible. She had to swallow down the bile and crash her elbow against the end table to steady herself. Her vision blurred until the entire suite seemed no more than a smear of clashing colors, red and white and gray and gold, ashes and blood. Finally, she seized a tea cup, intending to throw it in a petulant show of force, but its brittle china crumpled in her fingers before she could even aim it.

She shouted in the direction of him, though unable to see him through the convulsions that buckled her over. "You think you're giving me a choice!?" She screamed. Now her hand bled and shed little pink crystals of shredded china. "What sort of choice is that? I say 'stay' and you get loom around me, holding my moral failure over my head forever―! 'Stay' is damnation―it's eternal punishment―"

But Guzma, rather than sounding alarmed, or intimidated, or disturbed by her outburst, sounded strangely detached. "Twist it however you want," he said. "I don't care. But you have all of today to think about it."

"Today! Today! Today, you've killed me! It isn't fair!"

Guzma wasn't listening. She heard his heavy footfalls moving for the door. Though she couldn't sit up, she tried to crawl for him.

"It isn't f-fair!"

* * *

No one could hear her now. Guzma was gone. The dark company were quiet.

Outside, the sunlight at last broke free from the clouds and poured its iron-colored gaze on her prone back.


	33. Warmonger

Under the force of the punishing storm the previous night, the swimming pool's contents had been contaminated not only with rain, but with the crashing waves of ocean water spilling over the edge of the ship. The pool stood filled with a murky, brackish fluid suspended with particles and minerals, so naturally, no grunt chose to swim in it that morning. Even if the pool-water had still been its crystalline former self, the sun had yet to fully warm the water and poolside paths, rendering the pool area even more inhospitable.

However, while the humans shunned it, some pokemon found the waters more tolerable than before. Guzma's Golisopod, in particular, as a sea-dwelling creature, immediately took to it. It wallowed into the salty pool, chittering and scooping its clawed arms past the other water-types who had taken up residence. It sang a happy tune at a chance to bathe, creaked its dried-out scales together, burbled its mouth into the top surface, and in time, chose to sink to the very bottom of the pool, until it faded into a cloud-grey, indistinct figure sleeping beneath the splashing creatures above. It went rigid in meditation and let out only the occasional bubble as a sign of life.

As the pool brimmed with animal play, the grunts, most of them the trainers of the aforementioned pokemon, ambled restlessly about the poolside lounge, seated in chairs and trying to pass the time. Guzma was among them, but didn't give his attention to the pool or the attending grunts. He planted himself at a table and waited.

He looked irritable, with his arms crossed and fingers tapping his forearm―and he had good reason. He awaited the start of a previously-arranged meeting, and neither of the intended participants had arrived yet. Five minutes late. Guzma had been trained in timeliness enough to now be annoyed. He checked his watch, saw some grunts tilting their heads at him, and scowled at them until they turned away. As he waited, he made a mental note of the weather, which had, with the wind and sun, wiped the expanse free of clouds and finally began to bore some gentle heat on the world. If this kept up, the afternoon and evening would unfurl into a pleasant one, free of the sticky humidity that had crushed them the first night, and softened by the balm of sunlight and salty breeze.

They could celebrate outside, at the rooftop floor. Celebrate… Something.

Gladion arrived from upstairs, plodding down and across the deck slowly, much like a child reluctantly accepting the beckoning call of its parent. This resistance was new to Guzma; when he was Boss and Gladion was a contractor, the boy knew better than to dawdle when summoned, and _especially_ knew better than to show an attitude about it. Guzma no longer held a position over him, but Guzma was, to his own mind, in some _de facto_ authority here.

Guzma waited a few seconds, and when the pace he witnessed proved not to his liking, barked, "Hey, hurry up!"

Gladion apparently did not appreciate being lobbed with rude demands. He put his hands in his hoodie pocket, heaved a sigh, and carried on at about the same speed. Behind him, a gaggle of girls began to descend the staircase and send the noise of whispers and giggling downwind.

"Where's your sister?"

Upon reaching the table, Gladion started pulling out a chair. He gave his answer after a few seconds of icy silence. "She's coming. I found her, like you asked me to." Gladion said this like it was the fruit of some tremendous, burdensome toil. He dropped his shoulders and warned, "And before you say anything, I already told her."

"Told her wh―"

Guzma heard it before he saw it. The girls' laughter mixed with footfalls; grunts on either side popped up onto their feet, some moving, others just calling out with jeers and whistles. Guzma swung his head around to find the object of their attention and found himself briefly perplexed. From afar, he saw three girls―one girl in a white dress, which he thought was Lillie, and then _another_ girl in a dress close to Lillie's style. After a moment of thinking he was seeing double, he realized both of these girls had cropped, dyed hair. Not Lillie.

But the third girl, locked in arms with the other two and swaying with amusement, was the cause of the grunts' commotion and the true source of Gladion's sour mood. The third girl was Lillie―she had the long blonde hair and snowy face. And she wore Team Skull regalia, complete with a silver chain around her neck.

"What―" Guzma's face fell and he struggled to form words. "What's she think she's doing!?"

Gladion sighed again. "I don't know. She said she 'traded clothes'―it's some sort of girl thing."

"No… No, no…"

"Like I said. I told her already."

At least Gladion shared Guzma's distaste for the sight; Guzma didn't need to spend any further time debating the issue with the boy. So he jerked up onto his feet and launched himself at the growing crowd. Several grunts, mostly boys, had gathered to comment and share their approval of her wardrobe, but those gawkers were quick to scurry away when Guzma approached.

The two girls at Lillie's side remained, but eyed him like he was an uninvited invader. Guzma identified them: the twins. He knew them from back in the day―of course they'd be the ones to mix her up in this. Guzma cemented his dour look on Lillie, who had, up until this moment, seemed both amused and flattered by the attention. She immediately sobered when she saw his expression, but she didn't dare say anything, so the twins flanked and shielded her.

"Um," Trixie said, admiring her polished nails and pretending not to feel the tension of his presence, "like, what do _you_ want?"

Guzma may not have been their boss in a long time, but he still remembered the body language and tone. He remembered how to loom over them with the sort of scowl that dissolved the fiercest of opponents. Despite their resolve, the girls shrank a little under his shadow. "I'm not gonna even ask which o' you numbskulls thought this up," he growled, making a point of including Lillie in his scrawling gaze, "but the costume party's over."

In an unexpected outburst of bravery, Lillie pinched her brow and spoke up. Her cheeks puffed and flushed with indignation. "What, this? It's just for fun."

"Yeah! Why you bein' so serious?" Tiny complained.

"'Cause Team Skull gear's not a joke, and it ain't funny, neither." He finished his reprimand by thrusting his thumb over his shoulder in a pointed gesture. "Go get changed."

"Hey!" Trixie pushed past Lillie's shoulder and stood between them. "You ain't Boss no more! Just 'cause you older and bigger don't mean you get to boss her around."

"No," he said, staring the grunt down with arms folded against his chest, "the fact that I'm marryin' her mother does."

Tiny gasped. "Aw, pullin' the dad card on her! That's messed up, G!"

Because Guzma could see Lillie wasn't freely complying, and because he tired of the twins' antics already, he started brushing the girls aside with his broad hands to extract Lillie. They resisted by whining, so he snipped, "T'n'T, y'all gotta scram."

"What!"

"Nah!"

He barked. " _Now_!"

Whatever sound that came from his throat along with that command triggered a trained response in them; they jolted, shied, and mumbled defeated apologies as they abandoned Lillie to his wrath.

Guzma looked at her as the girls disappeared down the deck. Lillie had his fists taut at her sides and met his eyes with only a faint flickering of hesitation. Perhaps she didn't understand the faux pas; Guzma understood the weight of her sin, and so did Gladion, but she stood her ground, as if his persecution were unfair.

"Gladion said you wanted to meet with us," she said, voice hushed. She was trying to dodge the issue. "I came here as soon as I..."

"We ain't meeting with you dressed up all stupid," he retorted.

"It's not stupid!" Lillie planted her feet. "A-anyway, you said this meeting was important! If it's so important, then―"

"It can wait. Go put on something normal."

A few yards away, Gladion had settled into a chair facing the pool and not moved an inch. Lillie glanced past Guzma's towering form to give the back of Gladion's head an annoyed and betrayed glare. "I don't want to."

"Doesn't matter! 'Cause it's not a request!"

Lillie didn't say it, but her expression clearly stated: _make me_.

Finally, Guzma straightened his back to temper the intimidation factor (didn't seem to be working, anyway) and furrowed his brow. Where had the timid mouse gone? He could remember her squeaking and cowering those many months ago, when he saw her for the first time at Aether Paradise. At the time, she was a captive, and showed it, too, in body language and speech. Since coming onto the ship, she had exhibited some echoes of this frailty, but after the previous night...

Of course. Their last interaction had largely involved yelling, accusations of bullying, and a passing threat of corporal punishment.

"Kid…" He scooped his hand past his forehead and over his scalp as he sucked in a breath. He just barely restrained himself from blowing a gasket. "I get it. You're still mad at me. Right?"

Though Lillie didn't answer, she flitted her eyes to the side. She crossed her arms over the silver chain to complete her picture of unhappiness.

"Well, get over it," he said sternly. "'Cause bein' mad at me doesn't mean you get to wear that."

"You don't get to tell me what to wear."

She had a hair's breadth of a point, which forced him to sputter and rearrange his thinking. The girl appeared pleased to have stumped him, so he shot back: "But―!" He stuck a finger in her face and put on a nauseating, sanctimonious tone. "You're a kid, and I'm the adult. I know better than you."

Lillie released a heated breath of frustration, but found something in his words to latch onto. She mimicked the tight, parental verbiage with which she had grown up: "'Children would all be much happier if they'd only listen to the adults around them.' Is that it?"

"You―! Ugh! Listen! You don't get it! Wearing that, it's…" Guzma, failing to reason with her, resorted to manhandling. He took her arm, ignored her protests and struggling, and marched her toward her brother. Gladion heard them come closer but didn't turn all the way around, as if he sensed Guzma's intent to involve him and dreaded it. Guzma, as suspected, addressed him. "Man, back me up on this. _Please_."

"Back _you_ up!" Lillie yelped. "Gladion, tell him―he hasn't any right―"

Gladion, horrified at being chosen to mediate, wisely chose his path. He put up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm going to remain a disinterested third party here, thank you."

Before the two could both express their outrage at his lack of courage―he could see it develop in both their faces―Gladion played a mediator of another sort.

"Anyway, all this arguing you're doing is giving me a headache. Perhaps we should conclude our business here with whatever you wanted to tell us, and then you can continue to harass my sister."

Lillie didn't appreciate his dry joke, but Guzma snorted and accepted his terms.

"Fine." He pushed Lillie toward the other chair. "Siddown."

While she visibly sulked and sank into her seat, Guzma took in the sight of the two children side-by-side. He wrestled internally for a time, scratching his chin like he had something deep and impossible to express on his mind, and he paced a few steps before them.

Gladion tapped a finger on the table in his boredom. "...Mr. Guzma?"

"Don't think I'm done with you," Guzma warned abruptly, pointing at Lillie. "'Cause I'm not." (She gave him an annoyed glance in return). "Now, uh, here's the deal… This is… A quick family meeting, here, 'cause I'm busy organizing stuff for the party―"

"Party?"

Guzma heard the implied distaste in Gladion's question and cut it down. "Yes! Party! It's what your mom wants, and―anyway, this has gotta be real quick. You know we're gonna be back at Aether Paradise tomorrow."

"Yes," Gladion said.

"But we're not staying there," Lillie clarified.

"Yeah! Good thing you aren't!" Guzma overdramatically planted a hand to his forehead. "You two play off like you're all cute and innocent, but you got attitude problems! I couldn't put up with it, honestly."

Gladion looked over to his sister, mouthing in horror, "' _Cute_ '?"

"-So! That means you're heading off, and I wanna know what you plan to do with yourselves."

The siblings sat in deafening silence. Lillie twirled the chain around her finger and Gladion scratched his ear.

"...Don't y'all talk all at once."

Gladion sat up to speak warily. "It sort of depends, doesn't it? What are you going to do?"

"Me?" Guzma cast a look of anxious doubt over his shoulder. "Me and your mom… Don't worry about us. We're figuring things out."

That sounded awfully cryptic.

"She's taken care of," he added, with more meaning sent Gladion's way. "So?"

Because Lillie didn't seem eager to pipe up, Gladion shook his head and answered first. "I don't have any plans, other than returning to Ula'ula. I'll probably need to find a new line of work; Ms. Plumeria didn't say it, but I think I'm fired."

"What! What did you do!?"

The anger was poorly directed, and Gladion pointed this out: "Are you really going to chew me out for leaving a gang?"

Guzma hesitated, thought on it, tilted his head like the thinking hurt him, and relented, "No." He sighed. "Okay. Jobless _and_ homeless. Great. How about you, girlie?"

Since the beginning of the discussion, Lillie had sank further in her seat, eyeing a vacant distance and picking at the frayed hem of her white shorts. The boys nearly thought she wasn't going to answer at all, but she eventually did in a weak and hurt voice. "I don't know. Keep training with Master Hala, I guess…"

Guzma steamed. Their responses proved listless and aimless; these two bright, young creatures of promise, at the budding of their youth, with intelligence and strength at their disposal, and they wilted already. The Team Skull uniform on Lillie might have been put on as an unserious joke, but in that moment, it seemed to Guzma a ghastly premonition. Of all people, he knew the paths that lost children took. He felt the strong urge to take hold of them both and shake them out of it. "Seriously? That's it?" He threw up his arms in despondence. "Would you two show a little backbone!? A little ambition!? Geez! I don't wanna have no loser stepkids!"

Gladion quipped with a raised eyebrow, "Right. Whatever will your new friends at the country club think? ...Can we go now?"

Though Guzma wanted to argue, he couldn't think of what else to say. He didn't have the means to throw himself into a motivational speech. So instead, he fumbled at defeatedly dismissing them. "Ye― _no_." He caught himself. " _You_ can. _She_ can't."

Perhaps Gladion should have more forcefully stood up for his sister; certainly, she expected him to. But Gladion had a foreboding feeling―an intuitive sense of what Guzma had in mind to tell her. He knew he shouldn't be there for it. And in any case, he knew she wasn't in danger, for all the bluster and empty threats that Guzma levied at her. Gladion met her eyes, saw her offense, but washed his hands of it. "I'll leave you to talk," he finally said, pushing himself from his chair.

"Yeah, we're gonna have a talk, all right," Guzma said, now more weary than angry. He ignored the faint look of defiance Lillie gave him. "But first, you're getting your butt upstairs and changing out of _that_."

* * *

Out on the open deck at the front of the ship, grunts had gathered to form a ring of competitive pokemon matches. It was a last resort at moving the hours that early afternoon, as they had overheard and sensed planning going on at the rooftop deck. Crew members, feeling more secure with Guzma attending them, began the process of moving chairs, tables, lights, and equipment; grunts kept a close eye on all this, but didn't touch. They didn't want to fight their former boss, but perhaps, too, they began to realize the folly of biting the hand that offered to feed them.

In the meanwhile, then, they waited, sparred, made bets, and challenged one another. There were the sounds of thudding feet, roars, squeaks, sputters of fire and water, cries of elation and loss.

Nanu had eaten his lunch and warmed with an early dose of wine (as it was all that was left in the lounge bar), and watched a few battles before feeling the shuffle of his restless feet. Plumeria hadn't appeared at the impromptu tournament, and Gladion had decided to join in and throw his frustrations into a few matches, so Nanu had no company and no obligation to keep any.

So Nanu started up the steps toward the residential suites, with not much in mind except to check into his room and clear his head. Maybe watch some television. But with heavy steps, he fought against worn joints in his quest to reach the top, and upon climbing to the second floor, he saw Lillie.

Lillie sat at the top of the steps and a little ways down the deck, legs dangling over the edge of the railing, her arms resting on the metal bars. He could tell it was her because of the long, blonde pigtails billowing in the wind before her. She watched the fighting going on down below with remote interest, and so didn't see him as he arrived at the top of the steps.

For once, she didn't wear a skirt and blouse; today, he saw that had on a pink tank top with Beautifly wings stamped on its back, and she drummed white sneakers on the ledge of the railing. A Pichu also dozed on her lap atop some khaki shorts. Nanu noticed all this because, while he had known her on occasion to wear sportier things, the frilly style definitely remained her preference. It was odd. Just odd enough to catch his attention.

He began to walk for the door (didn't see any reason to trouble her), and he heard a sniffle.

Nanu thought momentarily that he might have imagined it, but no, again, there it was, a sniff, and now the girl lifted her hand and rubbed her eyes with the back of her pearly wrist.

 _Uh-oh_.

Nanu, despite liking her enough, tended to avoid her because he simply had no defenses against her. She was the sort of sweet, pretty thing that could melt the harshest crank into a soft, gooey grandpa; one bat of her eyelashes, and even in his worst moods, he crumpled. In that sense, Lillie was even worse than Acerola, who already had him around her little finger. Acerola bounced with such cheer, that he couldn't hurt her feelings, no matter what he muttered at her. Lillie, on the other hand, plinked about on fairy feet and trembled like a wounded deer, so that he feared even the gentlest of teasing would slay her. He had to be delicate with her, and that was rough on his nerves.

Hearing the sign of emotion made him wince and consider slinking by. He couldn't be expected to be everyone's therapist, could he? He'd given enough poor comfort for one lifetime.

But in the end, he wasn't as sneaky as he thought he was. When she twitched at hearing his footsteps, he resigned to his fate and trotted over.

"Oh―!" Lillie hurried to dry her eyes. "M-Mr. Nanu, I didn't see you there…"

Before she had a chance to turn her face away, he spotted a puffiness in her eyes. Seeing her in tears was the sort of sight that would drive any red-blooded male to heave up a pitchfork and vow retribution. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Lilypad, something the matter?"

"No."

Since his question failed to get her to fess up, he scratched his scalp and grumbled. "Anything I can do?"

"It's really nothing." She was not convincing at all. She pressed her hands under the Pichu's plump and drowsy paws and watched it as it yawned itself awake.

"I ain't gonna twist your arm, little one, so if you're not gonna share…"

Lillie, craving his company after all, blurted out in a hurry, "It's just―After Mr. Guzma..."

"Huh? What did that hoodlum do to you?" He placed a hand in his pocket, like he meant to search for some implement of torture. "You need Uncle to whup him for you? 'Cause say the word..."

Lillie, through the redness of her eyes, let out a soft but not fully committed laugh. "No, no… He didn't… Do anything. We only had a fight, and..."

"No fists went flying, I hope."

Another restrained laugh. "No."

"Who won?"

That question, at last, cast away her amusement. Her nose wrinkled and her voice fell. "He cheated."

"Oh-hoh," Nanu said. "Is that right?"

She must have contemplated sharing more details, but she hesitated, brought her Pichu tighter across her stomach, and tried to appear unmoved. "A-anyway, it wasn't really the fight… But after that, I started to think it all over to myself, and I feel…" A long moment of tense silence followed. "...I feel so useless."

The frustration in her voice tumbled back into a hopeless tremor; Nanu watched as she turned herself away to hide her face, but she couldn't disguise the tightness in her shoulders or the anguish in her rambling. Over the edge, her white-shoed feet tapped into each other in a nervous, shy way.

"Everything is still so wrong," she said. "I wanted a happy ending. I know that sounds foolish, but I really did. I wanted everything to get sorted out and fixed, so that everyone would be okay… And now I don't know how that can happen. I have all these choices I could make, but they're all horrible… What do I do?"

She wasn't asking him. He could tell by the way her eyes fell and traced back to the battling down below. In time she brought her Pichu before her face to meet its sleepy face and repeat her question.

"What do I do?" The Pichu's ears sagged in concern. She frowned at it. "I just don't know…"

"Hmm." That was all he could think to say for the moment. Nanu looked out at the fight as well and saw the last few seconds of Silvally pulverizing a grunt's Golbat, all while Gladion made wild gestures and verbal commands. Strange. The boy could be so subdued in person, but in battle, he got to be a bit flashy and over-the-top for Nanu's taste. The kahuna then wondered why Gladion was busying himself with meaningless fights when his sister so obviously needed guidance and consolation, but… Gladion was a kid, too, and likely feeling the same, creeping uncertainty. He just buried his in the throng, while Lillie cradled it alone. "Well," he finally piped up, providing the only upbeat thought he could imagine, "you got all today to figure it out, huh."

The crowd roared and jeered. Lillie put a hand on the railing, and instead of thanking Nanu for pausing on his way, she became absorbed again in the spectacle: limbs and teeth and whipping tails. By the tilting of her head, Nanu assumed it must have all triggered some thought in her, but he had no hope of ever finding it out.

He glanced upward. A white, decorative banner flew out and loose from a pole at the rooftop deck, whipping about like a long, ghostly serpent in the now clear sky.

Time was ticking.

* * *

The front deck had been scuffed, burned, crunched, scratched, ripped, and left without the shine and polish that had been so carefully been applied to it by the crew. The wood looked splintered, worn, and discolored, like it had been raked with innumerable blades and pounded by hammers. In some places, holes had formed; one railing had been knocked and bent. Only one crew worker tried, for a measly second, to suggest they take it easy, but this employee was harrassed until he fled the scene, never to make another peep. The grunts had revelled in this freedom to fight as they pleased, but after a while, Gladion began to suck the joy out of it.

Gladion shared many characteristics with his partner, some of which he freely pointed out, but one trait in particular showed itself now. They were both born for battle, and much more than that, they were born to take on enemies much greater than themselves. With this purpose unfed, both he and Silvally had grown restless and impatient at facing a roster of clumsy and ineffective trainers. It seemed that for each opponent they swept without effort, the more they stomped and paced the deck, snuffing in search of a challenge.

The grunts tried to appease Gladion by battling him one after another, but it did no good. The initially playful competition had warped him into a bloodthirsty, irritable creature. He'd win, tap a finger on his arm, and put on a cross expression that clearly meant, _was that it?_

So as the bloodbath continued, a small group of grunts, showing uncommon wisdom, split apart from the battling and ventured for the pool, as they remembered spotting there one known antidote for Gladion's combative spirit.

"Yo, G!"

They came at the right time. Guzma had paused his party-planning to usher his Golisopod out of the pool and give it a firm, long-overdue polishing; at the poolside chairs, he stood on his feet over the monstrous creature as it sat on its haunches, hunching its shoulders over to give its rocky scales the spread needed for Guzma to get to its hard-to-reach nooks and crannies. He had a wetted swimming towel―all that he had available―and rubbed the chlorine, salt, and grime away until its scales gleamed under the sun. Golisopod chittered and whistled happily at the attention and thus sat very still in compliance, even allowing Guzma to shove it about and maneuver its head or arms as he worked.

He heard his name and tried to ignore it. He shook his head to himself as if he could wish the voices away.

"Big G!"

As the steps approached close behind him, Guzma knew he could not avoid it. He released a snort of irritation and patted Golisopod's shoulder. He turned and saw Nene flanked by a few other familiar faces―JJ, Zazi, Chops dragging his little brother in tow. In the time that had passed on the boat, most of the grunts still loyally donned their uniforms, but certain flairs had been neglected or put aside, so of the group, none of them wore their hats, and their bandanas had fallen from their faces or been discarded entirely. Seeing their faces and heads so clearly lessened his bitterness all of a sudden; they looked almost like what they actually were, which was a wandering band of dumb kids chewing gum and searching for adult guidance.

Nene positioned himself before them and stuck his hands in his pockets to appear indifferent. "Howzit?"

Guzma wanted to get the conversation moving along, so he skipped niceties. "What do you want?"

"There's a tournament goin'," Zazi said.

"I can hear," Guzma replied, motioning for the air where the sounds of battle echoed from the front of the ship.

"But you ain't comin'?"

"I'm busy."

The grunts scoffed at this excuse, and Nene spoke for them: "You ain't busy."

"Okay―I'm not interested." He threw the towel over his shoulder with a resounding _thwap_. "Better?"

"Aw, c'mon! You _gotta_ help us out."

Even though this didn't rouse his interest, he had to ask, brow raised, "With _what_?"

JJ interjected, "Gladion's wiping out _everybody_."

"...How's that my problem?"

Exasperated, Nene whined, "Whatchoo _me-e-e-an_? Ain't you wanna fight? He thinks he's all that―don't you wanna show him who's boss?"

Chops elbowed him with meaningful force.

"-I m-mean!" Nene stammered to correct his slip-up. "Aw, you know what I mean."

"I'm not fighting him to save your egos, man. If he's the strongest, then he deserves to win."

Nene―brave, stupid, unthinking Nene―sniffed and complained, "You ain't change at all. You still always take his side."

Guzma stiffened. The other grunts, before he even twitched, started to take a step back, and they were right to do so, because without saying a word, Guzma put his hand to the towel at his shoulder and as quick as a flash brought it down on Nene's head. The blow couldn't have been very painful, but it had force enough to nearly knock Nene off his feet, and it made a wet, heavy, smacking sound when it made contact.

While Nene sputtered and reeled, the other grunts hesitated enough to merit Guzma yelling at all of them: "Piss off! Get outta here!"

They scrambled; he swung the towel a few more times, managing to land but two measly blows on Nene's head and shoulder before the boy got the hint and hurried away. He puffed from exertion and watched them go; at a distance, they turned to taunt him.

"Lame-o!"

"Jerk!"

"Loser!"

"Boring old fart!"

He took their insults in silence, but once they disappeared around the corner, he turned to his Golisopod to utter, "Friggin' brats."

Golisopod chortled and stretched its claws. Over its shoulder, he noticed the stray group of grunts at the poolside gawking at him; he huffed and steamed, now a bit embarrassed that his temper tantrum had been public.

"What you lookin' at!?"

The grunts hastily looked away.

"Tch!"

...He could never get away with anything, could he? He scratched his scalp roughly, scowled, and failed to find anything nearby to break. He compromised by kicking over a pool chair, tossing the towel on the ground, and ordering Golisopod to follow.

"...Whatever. I got some time to kill, don't I?"

He stalked for the scene―fully intending to stay a spectator.

* * *

Of course it didn't work out that way.

He approached from the rim of the crowd, but suddenly the bodies parted to allow space for a fainted, rotund Raticate to roll into view, stopping thankfully just before it might have tumbled overboard. It landed close to Guzma's feet, however, which led all eyes on him; furthermore, the parting of the crowd opened the view to the trainers who battled, so that a female grunt and Gladion alike were looking right at him. The expectation filling their eyes made him take a step back.

Things were weirdly silent. Gladion's opponent timidly came forward to return her Raticate and merge back with the spectators. Silvally, at the center of the ring, chuffed and stomped its forepaws when it saw Golisopod, as if it made its own conclusions.

Gladion crossed his arms. "Hmph. Finally. An actual challenge."

"Woah, hey," Guzma said, lifting his hands, "I'm just here to be the responsible adult, okay? Gotta chaperone you punks."

Over the number of cries of indignance, Gladion kept his composure. "I have a hard time believing that. When's the last time you had a full-out battle?"

Because Guzma wouldn't answer, his Golisopod warbled impatiently over his shoulder. Guzma shot the bug a glare. _Traitor_. "I can't be long. Got things to do."

"It'll be brief," Gladion promised. "Five minutes. That's all I need."

Guzma cocked an eyebrow at him and snorted. Either Gladion really was that conceited, or he was playing up the arrogance to goad Guzma into battle. Certainly, the kid shouldn't have reason to be so cock-sure―he had yet to win a fight with the former Skull boss. Guzma considered blowing him off after all, but Golisopod, who had indeed been aching for a fight for weeks, hustled past him and found a place in the ring. Yips of excitement came from the crowd:

 _Yeah, G!_

 _Crush 'im! Bash 'im!_

 _Beat 'im down!_

"Ugh." Guzma trudged through, elbowing grunts on his way in and settling with his hands deep in his pockets. "Alright, alright. But kid gloves are off, got it?"

Gladion looked offended that he would even suggest taking it easy. "Well― _good_."

"And I don't have my full team on me just now. Only this bonehead."

"I've only had to use Silvally so far anyhow. A one-to-one match will do."

With negotiations done and pokemon in place, they needed only to start. They took position; Gladion called Silvally back only to slip it a few treats for refreshment and murmur some direction.

Then, with the grunts looking breathlessly on, they nearly made their first command.

A cry came out over the wind.

" _Wa-a-a-ait!_ "

The boys, flummoxed, looked about for the source of the shout. Soon, the distant sound of sneakers pattering on metal steps led to someone navigating and squeezing past a wall of grunts.

"Excuse me―sorry―coming through."

They recognized the voice, and their intuition proved right when Lillie, nearly out of breath, elbowed her way into the center clearing, brushed herself off, and made a few spritely steps to take her place alongside her brother. She looked serious with a wrinkled brow, but also nervous, like she hadn't thought any of this through and made the decision to appear at the very last second.

"You haven't started yet, have you?" she asked between puffs. She took their silence to mean _no._ "I-I would like to join in, please!" She even brought out a pokeball to show her seriousness.

Both boys gawked at her.

"A double battle," she explained. She motioned for Gladion. "W-well, double on our end, anyway… But I'm sure it'll still be fair. Won't it?"

She looked at Guzma with an encouraging smile. He stared back stunned. Then she looked to Gladion. She expected him to be at least somewhat grateful for the offer to help, but he scrunched up his face at her, like she was out of her mind.

Now she was annoyed. She put her hands to her hips. "What's the matter?"

Her brother began to say, "Lillie… Are you sure…"

"Of course I'm sure!"

Gladion rubbed his forehead and sighed. "I'm only saying you're new at this."

"I can help! O-or at least, I won't get in the way!"

"Let the girl battle," Guzma announced. "Least it'll be interesting."

Gladion might have argued harder against it, but with the two of them against him, he decided against wasting any more time. "Fine. Pick your pokemon, Lillie. Just… Make it good. I'd actually like to _win_ this."

She did _not_ appreciate that tone. She stuck her nose up at him. "I'll pick who I like. Why do boys have to be so competitive all the time?"

"It's! A competition! It's _supposed_ to be―!" Gladion swallowed the rest of his rant and grunted a frustrated huff as he turned back toward their opponent. "I'm ready if you are, Mr. Guzma."

"Wait a second! Should I use Clefairy, or…?"

* * *

Guzma had never witnessed the two have a proper sibling squabble, and it was both entertaining and a bit of a relief. So they weren't two perfect saints after all; they could be just as petty, disloyal, and rude to one another as regular children.

In the end, the battle itself reflected this disjointed partnership; it was a hectic, fast, and divided affair. Lillie barely had time to release her Clefairy into the ring before Golisopod and Silvally charged one another and bashed skulls, causing a thundering smash of metal and bone to echo across the deck. The ring of spectators widened as fears of collateral damage suddenly became a great concern; Golisopod smashed and slashed with its claws, Silvally screeched, bit, and clamped with its powerful talons, and the two monsters wrestled with ferocious intensity. The two boys shouted their orders with such quickness and volume that Lillie couldn't follow what was going on. In the first minute of battle, her Clefairy lingered near her feet, clearly nervous and undirected.

From there, it became a mess of thrashing, throwing, bashing, and yelling. The only pause came when Golisopod managed to take hold of Silvally's throat and smash its head into the floor, denting the wood and disorienting it. So while the chimera panted and reeled, Golisopod shifted its body to face its second opponent.

This fight proved not so violent. Lillie, suddenly faced with a battle, did what first came to mind: ordered her Clefairy to run. And as it ran, skipping in floating steps around and around the Golisopod, who warbled and tossed its head in confusion, it cast a spell in its desperation to avoid contact, granting it speed and obscurity. This succeeded in keeping Golisopod from landing a hit, for a time, anyhow―the large crustacean threw its claws at the blur of pink shadow and couldn't manage to strike―but after a while of skipping and evading, it became clear this was the only strategy Lillie felt comfortable employing. She never ordered an attack, and the Clefairy fled and scurried in ever-heightened despair.

The technique could not last forever. It tripped on a stray sweep of Golisopod's arm, lay prone on its belly, and was about to receive an exacting blow from Golisopod's claws.

The claw crashed onto the floor―but Clefairy wasn't there. It had fizzled into white ether; Lillie stood with her pokeball in hand, visibly trembling.

The Golisopod dumbly squeaked and pawed the spot where the Clefairy had vanished, but the human trainers turned their eyes to Lillie. The grunts roared, scandalized.

"What are you doing?" Gladion demanded. The anger in his voice was palpable.

"I just―"

"You can't withdraw a pokemon to avoid an attack like that! It's against League rules!"

"S-sorry! I know! I panicked!"

"What are you withdrawing for, anyway? You can't swap out! We're doing one-to-one!"

She flushed and shot back, "You never told me to that!"

In the heat of the fight, Gladion couldn't remember whether that was true; he frowned and glossed his mistake over. "Send your Clefairy back out."

Even though this should have been a simple command, Lillie hesitated, seemingly thinking something over in a fretful way.

"Or―" He bounced on his toes with impatience, and then uttered snottily, " _Don't_. It's not as if it'll make much of a difference..."

Guzma had been quiet during all of this, and rather restrained, too. He hadn't mocked or even smirked at Lillie's floundering or Gladion's frustration. But after Golisopod trotted back to his side of the ring, he listened to the grunts whisper and chuckle their doubts about Lillie's place in battle, saw Gladion's anger at her grow, and witnessed the increasing embarrassment and hurt in her face. She had gone out on a limb, taken a risk… And messed it up.

Guzma gnawed the inside of his cheek, inhaled, and decided he was going to have some fun after all. "Hey!" He called across the ring, his eyes on Gladion. The command in his voice brought some hush over the battlefield; he pointed scoldingly and razzed, "I didn't raise you to talk to your sister like that!"

The laughter that came in waves around them did what he intended; the attention came away from Lillie and onto him, as well as onto Gladion, who didn't take the joke well. He paled and shot Guzma a deadly look. "Very funny," he said. "But how I talk to my sister is none of your business."

Guzma snorted and took advantage of the crowd's tickled mood and Gladion's miscalculated attempt at sassing back. "Tch. You better watch it, kid. I dunno how it is Kalos, but in Alola, we spank our kids."

The battle threatened to end there, with all the racket and disruption that exploded about them. There was howling and screeching and shrieking, like the grunts had turned into animals with no hope of civilization. Gladion only barely held it together by keeping his mouth pinned shut as his face deepened in color, even when one grunt leaped into the ring to shake him by the shoulders and shout deliriously, _You gotta kill him now! You ain't takin' that, L'il G, you gotta_ ** _ice_** _him―_

He shoved the intruding boy off, sputtered a curse to throw off his humiliation, and cast eyes of pure murder on his opponent. "That's enough!" His yelling didn't break through the cacophony yet, which was a mercy of sorts, because he was so angry that his voice cracked. He swallowed to steady his voice and pinched the Z-Ring at his wrist. "I'm ending this now! Silvally!"

In the time that had passed, Silvally had shaken its head, stood up on wobbly legs, and recovered from its shock. At hearing its master's voice, it arched attentively.

"Activate the Electric Memory!"

To those who remained unaware of Silvally's nature, the stiffened posture and strange whirring that erupted from its head alarmed them; its eyes rolled back into its head, the mechanical latch at its cheeks moved a notch and clicked, and it blinked hard, suddenly stirring with a flash of golden, iridescent color at its sclera, crest-feathers, and tail. Sparks of electricity shuddered from its metal jaws. Its entire body vibrated and sizzled, muscles tense with a pulsing energy that threatened to let loose any second.

Nearly everyone took a solid step back, including Lillie, who still clutched her pokeball and hadn't found the nerve to re-release her Clefairy.

Guzma stayed where he was and eyed the Z-Ring. He saw a flash of a yellow crystal. Ah, he understood. Gladion's plan was to overwhelm him with type advantage in the form of a Z-Move. Not the most creative strategy, but it was likely to work. Golisopod was still in fighting condition, but it was wearied, as he could see by the lolling of its tongue and foaming at the mouth. Guzma had a choice. Either try and beat him to punch with own attempt at a K.O., buckle in and try to endure it… Or…

He saw Lillie off to the side and dejected. He saw Gladion clawing like a spitting cat for a chance at victory. Guzma frowned and thought: _this is stupid_.

He didn't expect that thought, but it became clearer as he rolled it about in his head. He hadn't come here to massage Gladion's ego. Neither had he come to show him up. Win… Or not win… What did it matter just now? This whole fighting spree had started because some kids were bored and wanted to have fun, and Gladion had to muck it up by making it about proving something.

 _Show him who's boss_.

"Goli."

Golisopod, who had up until that moment kept its attention sealed on the readying form of an electric Silvally, turned its head toward him. It looked upon him with black eyes full of trust, as it knew his words would hand them victory at the greatest odds.

Confident now, Gladion set his fingers to the Z-Crystal and readied his stance. With a shout, he called on Silvally to begin its charge, and the chimera howled in eagerness and, spewing threads of white-hot plasma, reached a far enough distance to barrel its way to the enemy.

Then Guzma gave Golisopod a surreptitious order―and the unexpected happened.

Golisopod, far too carefully and slowly to be a victim of an actual collapse, bent its haunches, leaned over, and settled onto its stomach. At first, the spectators thought this to be a strategy of some kind, but then the creature stuck out its arms, sank its weight onto the ground, and played dead―tongue comically hanging from its jaw.

Silvally, startled, charged forward a few more paces, slowed its steps, then paused. The energy surrounding it wafted into nothing, evaporating like smoke. With only the yellow gleam to its secondary features remaining, it bent its head to sniff at the prostrate bug's face.

Gladion dropped his hand in flustered confusion.

The watching grunts at first rippled with nervous laughter, but they, too, came to scratch their heads and, once they thought they realized what this meant, protested and booed.

Gladion yelled, "What are you doing?"

"Aw, man, look at that," Guzma said, shrugging in defeat and wearing an unconvincing look of disappointment. "Guess my partner's out of commission. Too bad."

With Silvally's attack path interrupted, it reverted out of battle-mode―it grunted and let out a puzzled bark, then waggled its rump and tail as it paced back-and-forth and stomped the deck with its forepaws. Its pleas for play were ignored, even when it nudged the Golisopod and nipped at the air.

Gladion ignored his partner's silly behavior and directed his anger at Guzma. "You can't do that," Gladion said hotly. "I was about to win!"

"Whatta you talkin' about! You did win! Look at him! You wiped him out!"

Golisopod, for a second, lifted its head to meet Guzma in the eyes; he motioned for it to lay back down, and so it plopped back onto the deck, tongue out. Silvally vibrated with excitement at this small movement but was still unable to coax the creature to get up, so it flumped onto its stomach and lay nose-to-nose with the bug to watch more carefully.

"Silvally! It's faking! Attack it!"

Silvally stood up on its legs and gave its master a querying look, but before Gladion could convince it, Guzma stepped in between the creatures.

"You calling Goli a liar?" Guzma stooped down to crook Golisopod's drooping head upward and shake it. "Huh? Say that to his face!"

"Be serious!"

"I am serious," Guzma grunted. "Battle's over." With that, he returned Golisopod to its ball and checked his watch. "And that was _way_ over five minutes."

Between Gladion's complaining and the disappointed groans of the spectators, Guzma decided he had succeeded in pulling the rug out from under them. Good enough. He considered simply turning around and leaving the scene, as grunts already started to file away in protest, but he could tell the boy was still worked up and ready to fight, so he took a few brought paces past Silvally and over the opposite side of the ring.

The blonde boy did not submit in the least as he approached; to the contrary, Gladion stepped in and demanded, on the verge of petulance, "I _want_ a rematch!"

"Aw, shut up." Guzma suddenly planted a hand on the boy's head. The size difference meant that his palm and fingers could just about enwrap Gladion's skull, but Guzma didn't use this advantage too unkindly; he gave the boy a stern, chastising tousle and shake. This ruffled Gladion's hair and caused enough physical discomfort for the younger trainer to yap at him, which only served to amuse Guzma more. He drew his hand away and flashed a nasty, dominating grin. "Quit your bellyachin', brat. It's just a battle."

Gladion made choice threats under his breath and swore vengeance, but for the moment busied himself puffing and trying to fix his bangs. This allowed Guzma a chance to look to Lillie. She looked an impossible mix of crushed, relieved, and astonished.

"Your brother's a doofus who takes stuff too serious," Guzma told her. "You know that, right?"

" _Excuse_ me?" Gladion had rearranged his hair and apparently thought this meant he had a right to butt in.

"You heard me," Guzma snapped. He made a threatening swipe at him, like he meant to muss his hair. "Anyway, I'm sure he's sorry."

"I…" Lillie was-almost touched? Certainly she didn't expect Guzma to try and comfort her. But she looked down at the pokeball in her hand and tucked it away in defeat. "It's fine. I wasn't… Any good."

"Yeah, that was a total disaster," Guzma agreed. Lillie gave him a startled, hurt look and he amended, "Jus' bein' honest. Geez. I thought you were training with Master Hala. What's the deal with that?"

Lillie hopelessly shrugged. She ended up staring at her feet, which twisted together on the floor. "Maybe… Maybe I'm not putting enough work into it…"

The crowd had dwindled almost entirely, and quickly at that, so only a few stray grunts remained to watch them. Guzma wondered if he ought to ask more prodding questions, because it really was baffling to him, that with all this time she hadn't progressed as she should― and Gladion interrupted his thinking again.

"This is really _entirely_ unfair."

"Oh my _god_." Guzma had a sudden impulse to chuck the boy overboard. "You're killin' me, kid! Are you that friggin' bored? Listen! If you ain't got anything else to do with yourself, I'll put you to work. C'mon." The tall boy swung himself around and started for the stairs, but Gladion wasn't easily cajoled.

"...What kind of work?"

"Work! Carrying things. Putting stuff places. You know."

This sounded charmless and dull, so Gladion negotiated. "And _then_ I get a rematch."

"Sure! Whatever."

"...That's not very reassuring."

Lillie asked, "Can I help?"

Guzma measure her willingness skeptically. "I guess, if you want… You can do something girly, maybe? Like decorating? I dunno. I'll find something."

"...This is all adding up to child slave labor, isn't it."

Guzma just shook his head, heaved a groan, and rubbed the back of his neck as he made his way up the stairs. "Quit playin' with me. I swear. Menaces to society. I can't take it." They dawdled in their indecision, so he barked at them, rescinding his implication that any of this was voluntary. "Hurry up an' make yourselves useful!"

Gladion, for his part, hesitated, rolled his eyes, but ultimately pretended to trudge up the stairs of his own volition.

Lillie followed close after him, drawn by the possibility that she could be of actual _use_ to someone and not just get in the way, or ruin things... Besides, the prospect of the three of them working together for a common goal, rather than at one another's throats, gave her a sense of ease and purpose. The warm sun of the early afternoon finally calmed her nerves. She breathed easy. The breeze knocked her hair from her face and tried the remaining stress-induced tears.

She looked up, thinking about the party-Guzma had mentioned it was meant for Mother, as what, a peace offering? Maybe giving Lusamine a kind and thoughtful gesture like that would inspire something new, she thought… Or inspire something in them.

A knot still remained in her stomach.

Upward, toward the suite wing entrance, Lillie thought she saw a pale head with golden hair looking back at her. But she blinked, and before she could decide whether it was real, it had gone.


	34. En Rose

Lusamine could not hide forever.

Or rather, she _could_ hide forever, but it would not be a feasible plan. Not if she intended to retaliate appropriately against the indignity she suffered.

She at first thought she would make Guzma _rue the day_ he thought he could manipulate her so. Guzma wanted her to choose, did he? Then she would choose. But the choice would be a bitter one, and she swore she would find a way to crush him with it. Perhaps she ought to renew every bit of loathing she felt, heap abuse on him, treat him like the wretch that he is―how easy it would be, then, to banish him from her sight. Or she could seduce him all over again, be as sweet as roses, and charm him so perfectly that he will take it all back and _beg_ to stay with her. Then she can enjoy his watching his expression when she destroys him.

However, these choices, the more she dwelled on them, felt increasingly tired and unoriginal. These were tactics practiced by a heartbroken, overlooked, or misused teenager. They could have been a salve to the pain of a boy asking another girl to the school dance, but they would be pitiful fixes for a marriage in shambles. Besides, Guzma would see her plot coming and ignore it. She'd played her hand too soon; he knew her techniques too well.

So for a time, Lusamine hid and wallowed in her misery. No one came to her room to bother her; Guzma had evidently found other activities to occupy his time, and no one else on the ship had reason to search her out. In the hours that slipped by without event, her suite's morning color faded into an ashen pallor. Far away, and even in the suite corridors just outside her room, there came the steady wave of now-ubiquitous sounds of children: giggling, chatter, vulgarity, complaining. Footsteps and doors opening. She covered her head and did the best she could to ignore these reminders of her current state, but no bed coverings could block out her knowledge of what she faced outside.

She came out of her room only once that afternoon when the ruckus got to be unbearable to the point of shaking the entire boat. She caught sight of the finishing act of a pokemon battle between her children and Guzma―and what a sight it was! The spectacle roused the entire ship into such boisterous braying and stomping, that she feared the whole vessel might be knocked off-balance. In the end, she couldn't tell who won, but only saw the three meet furtively and hurry away together.

 _To make plans_ , she thought. _To plot against me_.

...It was their fault. She knew that. Had known it. Her marriage plans began to unravel the moment he gave those two any time at all. He trusted them more than he did her.

With those defeatist thoughts swirling in her head, she slinked back into her room and returned to her bed, which now served as an altar to her suffering.

 _Thump-thump-thump. A laugh, a pokemon cry, something fragile breaking._

Lusamine threw a pillow over her head to stifle a self-pitying sob.

* * *

By the end of the party organization, it became clear to the Aether siblings and to the ship's staff that Guzma was not entirely sure for whom he planned the event. Most of the decorations and style had been cobbled together and refashioned from discarded wedding materials: white linens on tables, flower arrangements, dinner plates and silverware, amber string lights suspended between poles and dangling against the deepening blue skyline. It seemed awfully formal, considering the majority of the intended guests. That it had class was no real credit to Guzma, though―he left the detailed decisions to the hosting crew and guided them only with generic requests, such as "make it look good."

It ended up appearing much like the wedding reception that would have been. The tables were lined in rows, and open space at the opposite half of the rooftop deck remained open as a dance floor.

( _Who's going to be dancing?_ Gladion privately wondered. He hoped it wasn't the grunts.)

Afternoon started to lean into evening hours, casting longer shadows over the floor and richer color where the sun broke through clouds low in the sky. With nothing else left to do, Gladion and Lillie had seated themselves at the edge of the deck, Lillie in a chair she had pulled away from a table, and Gladion, more aloofly, on top of a liquor crate. Things were nearly ready. But before Guzma returned from whatever last-minute fussing he was up to, Gladion slid open a crate beside him to free a beer bottle for himself. He cracked the cap off.

Lillie only lifted her head a moment at the noise, saw what he was up to, and chose not to comment.

"All right," a voice said over the lingering breeze. Guzma, having finished a quick chat with culinary staff, trailed back over to them. He walked casually, shoulders slouched and hands in pockets, and paused before them to report, "Just waiting on food. I'm gonna go round up people―and hey, what is _that_?"

The reason for Guzma's sudden spike in indignation was Gladion's rather brazen decision to start drinking the beer in front of him. The boy blinked at him, examined the bottle sarcastically, and said, "I believe it's called 'beer.'"

"Quit playin'. Whadda you doin' drinking? You're like twelve."

"Thirteen," Gladion corrected crossly. "And that's a judgmental tone, considering you're the one who gave me my first beer."

Now that he mentioned it, Guzma did have a vague, distant memory of handing the new recruit a bottle and belting out a laugh when the child made a weak, gagging attempt at drinking from it. "Well, yeah, but―that was just a joke."

"Yes. Hilarious." Gladion tapped the crate underneath him with the heel of his shoe. "You had me carry three cartons of the stuff up here. I think I've earned it."

"You…" Guzma paused, ruminated on his logic, then sighed. "Okay―fine." He amended, as to not seem like a pushover, "You can have _one_."

Gladion just rolled his eyes and took another glug.

"Um…" Lillie hesitantly raised a finger to get Guzma's attention.

Guzma threw eyes on her, aghast. "What! Don't tell me you want one."

She shied. "Oh, no… I don't do… that. It's gross, anyway."

"Aw, see! That's smart! Glad, why can't you be smart like your sister!?"

Before Gladion could snipe back―and by his frown, Lillie could tell he meant to―the girl ignored Guzma's teasing and piped up with inordinate hope. "Will Mother be here too?"

"...Huh?"

"Are you going to get her?"

Guzma flattened his brow and tightened his mouth. Great uncertainty clouded his expression and his verbal answer, which came out to, "Uh, maybe. We'll see." He squeezed his neck and avoided looking at them as he thought it through, and eventually added, "We'll get there when we get there."

From atop the crate, Gladion gave the party set-up one last glance. For him, the arrangement still didn't add up. He grimaced. "You aren't doing all this to woo her, are you?"

"'Woo' her!" Guzma sucked his teeth at the boy. "Whatta you _talkin_ ' about! She's already 'wooed,' isn't she! Consider her _very wooed_!"

"It's just… The whole thing's coming off as… conciliatory. All things considered."

"Well, whatta you want me to do! Chuck rotten fruit at her!?"

"I _want_ you to not marry her."

"That's not up to you," Guzma said. (He neglected to say who it _was_ up to). In any case, he ended the conversation.

Although Team Skull would normally shun such a transparent, desperate attempt at mending things, the fact was the children could always be lured with the promise of food and drink. So despite their suspicions about Guzma's motives and their vague distrust of any party he had arranged, they started to file their way upstairs after their former boss passed word of dinner and free liquor.

When the grunts arrived, they weren't sure what to make of the disconcerting rows of tables, the clean glasses and dishware, or the attempts at decoration. Some of the ship's crew, wearing suspenseful, intense looks, lined the outskirts of the rooftop deck to keep an eye on the event, but for quite a while, there was no need to worry. Team Skull was not in their element and thus not ready to throw things into chaos.

While they awaited the rest of the grunts, the present kids wasted no time tearing into the beer, scooping bottles into their arms and finding places to sit, snort, and cuss. Their pokemon frolicked under the white linens flapping in the breeze, the creatures zipping beneath the tables and snapping at one another in play. Already, the energy threatened to bubble over and rip the scene to shreds, so Guzma, upon spotting a grunt poking at and nearly tipping a glass vase, stormed over and made his expectations known.

"Break anything," he snarled, "and nobody eats! Got it!?"

The grunts, seated in both chairs and on the floor of the deck, mumbled, whined, and gaped up at him in disbelief.

"Day-yng, G, why you so pressed?"

"Yeah! Chill!"

Guzma glowered over the growing throng of partygoers. They filled seats and clicked their silverware on the table as they felt boredom and hunger creep up on them. He saw more grunts climbing the stairs and was mildly surprised to see Plumeria arrive; she had stayed out of sight that day, not bothering to attend her kids during the battle competitions or other mischief. She looked sour… but willing to give anything a shot at bringing up her mood.

Bully, as usual, climbed up after her, pretending to be a loyal cohort; Nanu wheezed and brought up the rear far below.

"Can we play music?"

Guzma, distracted, didn't even bother to check who asked. He just shrugged. "Sure, whatever." A few grunts subsequently began to rifle through and take command of the sound equipment, bickering as they did, and Guzma turned his focus on the new arrivals. "Plume!"

She looked up, now at the top of the stairs and meeting his eyes. She appeared surprised at being so casually addressed.

But Guzma suppressed any lingering resentment, asking with strange earnestness, "Can you keep an eye on them? I'll be back in a few. Just… Don't let them bash anything too bad."

Plumeria lifted an eyebrow at him. She might have questioned his idea of negotiating terms with his wedding crashers; at a quick glance over the event, she, too, read a stuffy atmosphere. She would sooner turn over the tables herself than defend them against the horde.

"Food'll be here any minute," he promised.

"...Ugh." She sighed and dropped her shoulders from their prior defensive position. "All right, all right. Uncle!"

She didn't need to yell; despite his slow movement, Nanu had already caught up and was puffing behind her. "I heard," he said. He winced when loud rap music suddenly boomed out from the sound system, and had to raise his voice to say: "And if you think you're putting me on babysitting duty, you've got another thing coming."

* * *

Though it had been many, many hours since Guzma last entered Lusamine's suite, he wasn't entirely surprised to find her position unchanged. He had given the door a feeble knock, waited, heard nothing, then breached the entrance anyway, and saw that she had her face planted against a pillow on the bed. She lay so still that from afar, someone could have mistaken her for dead, but a subtle, steady flow of breathing lifted her shoulders and back.

He almost didn't want to disturb her. He watched her for a moment as the room darkened. The very last of the day's light had waned, and at the last second, Guzma pawed for the light panel to make out the space more clearly.

The lamp turned on, but Lusamine didn't flinch or move.

"Miss?"

He sighed and approached the bed. When his presence didn't evoke a response, he escalated by sitting on the edge of the bed, which jostled the mattress just enough to make her shift her arms.

"You hungry?"

If Lusamine were honest―and really, when was the last time she'd been honest with anyone?―she would say she was starving, as she had not eaten since breakfast. But she was also nauseated and overwhelmed, her flesh clammy and hands trembling, so her appetite would not win out.

Guzma fruitlessly tried to read her body language in lieu of any of the verbal sort. "So you're not?" He hesitated. A warm, broad hand clasped the chilly flesh of her arm and stayed there, as if to defrost her. "Why don't you get up?"

She squirmed, a sound of contempt lurching from her throat. "Why bother?"

"Lu." After a moment, he chose to console her, rather than scold her for her unhelpful attitude. "You'll feel better."

"How can you be so sure of that…?"

"Well, it ain't like lying here's helping, is it?"

Because his argument was sound and she couldn't think of a way to answer him, she rebelled by crumpling even more stubbornly than before.

"I'll carry you," he warned.

"Do that, and I'll―" She meant to say ' _scream_ ,' but before she could finish her threat, he decided to follow through with his. His arms scooped down, seizing her about the waist and hoisting her up like baggage; as she had alluded, she released an indignant shriek and clawed for the bed, digging her nails uselessly into the sheets to fight against him. Of course he yanked her free, but in the midst of her flailing with her elbows jutting into his sides and heels landing blows at his ankles, he nearly lost his grip on her. He recovered enough to make a grab for her legs, though, until he had her captive in his arms in a bridal carry. "Put me―! Down this instant, you inbred!"

Guzma let out a harsh bark of a laugh and spun for the door while she kicked and protested. "What, this ain't romantic for you?"

" _Stop_ it!" From where she lay draped in his arms, she had vantage enough to grapple for his neck. She felt anger enough to choke him, and she managed to snare her fingers at the base of his throat, but in grabbing him, her strength and resolve came unglued. With a shudder of weakness, she managed only to pull herself up and place her face at his shoulder, and from there, she moaned in a pitiable, small voice. "Please. I don't want to go."

And so just as quickly as he had tried to pass it off as a joke, he slowed and stilled, creasing his brow. In a strangely intimate and comforting gesture, he fixed his hand more tightly at her back until he almost cradled her. "Why not?"

"I can't."

"But your kids are out there."

"How's that relevant?"

"Everybody's waiting for you," he implored in her ear.

"I doubt that," she snapped back.

"Okay, _I'm_ waiting for you."

"You!" In defeat, she crumpled her features into his shirt, leaving it sticky with tears. "You want to get rid of me."

"No." He squeezed his grip and put on a stern edge to his voice. "That's not what I said."

"It's what you _meant_!" Though she had only seconds ago complained about being held against her will, now she encircled her arms about his neck to bring herself consolation. She muffled her sobs. "Oh, just go! Go and enjoy yourself while I rot away here! What good practice it will be! You know everyone would be much happier for it anyway!"

If she meant to elicit compliance, she failed; if she meant to elicit sympathy, however, she suffered a small victory, as Guzma sighed, allowed her to slip down onto her feet on the floor, and made his best attempt at comforting her. "That's not true," he lied. He thumbed away a mascara-laced tear. "Hey, listen. It's your party. Your wedding. If anybody's got the right to be there, it's you!"

Lusamine cast a doubtful, doe-eyed look on him.

"Look―it'll be good. It'll be a good time, and―if anybody messes with you, I'll pound 'em into dust, okay?"

A childish promise. The sort of vow a teenage boy would make for his new beau. Somehow it didn't bother her. Somehow―it seemed so ridiculous that she had to be pleased by its genuineness. Yet it struck her as an odd time to express that kind of loyalty. Her pleasure gave way to a bitter frown.

He saw her hesitance and put a hand to her shoulder. An errant slip of his finger on the bare flesh of her arm gave meaning beyond friendly comfort; she trembled. "One last night. And then after…" A strained silence hung above them. "After, you can decide."

When he said that, she felt all of it over again: the fear, rage, hopelessness, the illness swelling in her gut.

He didn't waste a moment to let her stew in it; he seized her by the hand and declared it was time to go.

* * *

Because food had arrived and Team Skull were desperately hungry, the event started off smoothly. Nothing inspired compliance quite like the promise of food―grunts who normally balked at authority regressed to childlike obedience, standing in line, waiting their turn, even mumbling their please and thank you's when old training kicked in. For now, so long as they kept chewing and filing into seats, they wouldn't be trouble.

Plumeria, then, didn't have to supervise too much. She ushered the food line some, barked a few orders, but within a few minutes she decided further assistance wouldn't be needed. Nanu picked his seating spot already, nursing his beer at the empty table furthest from the grunts and thudding speakers, so to thwart his isolation, she snagged a plate for herself and headed for him. On her way, though, she passed a table of younger male grunts where Bully had converged, and she noticed that they shoveled their greens onto the deck, where their pokemon scurried to eat it up on their behalf.

She paused to put a hand on her hip and play mother. "When's the last time any of y'all ate a vegetable?"

The boys looked up, saw her, and groaned.

"Aw, quit geekin', sis," one grunt answered.

"Chips are a vegetable," Bully said, thinking he was helping.

She settled a glare on him.

"What! They made o' corn, aren't they!?"

"And potatoes," another said.

The collection of them wore grins now and sniggered.

"Ketchup with my fries, yo. That's two right there!"

Plumeria, chagrined, shook her head. "Y'all dummies are gonna get scurvy, I swear."

"Girl, mind yo' business," Bully told her, voice drawled with whining. "Big G ain't never fussed at us about what we eat."

Plumeria could have taken offense, even chewed him out for mouthing off in front of the other grunts. He was subordinate to her as they were. But tonight, she felt at ease, so she merely smirked and explained, "That's 'cause he ate like crap, too. Where do you think I learned about scurvy, huh? Had to get him to the doctor when he broke out in hives."

As they laughed, Plumeria turned away; Bully, surprised, stopped her. "Hey, where you goin'?"

"Grown-ups table."

Bully followed her trajectory with his eyes, spotted Nanu, and grunted an acknowledgement. "Huh. Yeah. So, Plume. When's _y'all's_ wedding?"

"Euugh!" Chops gagged. "Don't do it, Big Sis! Them babies gonna come out gray-haired!"

Plumeria just shot him a warning, withering glance and tossed her head. It would do no good arguing with them; boys will be boys. Within moments, they would be cackling about something else entirely.

Besides, Nanu welcomed her, and within a few minutes, she eased into banter and forgot all about it.

* * *

The couple arrived hand-in-hand and time suspended itself.

The music, which was a mixture of thuggish chants, taunts, and boasting, didn't pause, despite how poorly it matched their appearance from the stairwell. Guzma wore a careful, serious look along with his conservative clothing style, all of which added together to make him seem at least a decade older; Lusamine, edging reluctantly along in her high heels, scanned her surroundings with a clear sense of nerves. Not all of the grunts paid them any mind, but a select few scurried after them like ducklings, squawking for attention, in particular from their new maternal figure. They called her and tugged at the end of her skirt, like they expected her to unwind from her partner and dote on them. In fact, she almost did. Before Guzma finally cussed at them and chased the grunts off, Lusamine gave a boy a pat on the head and let one girl cling to arm and babble at her.

Plumeria allowed herself a sliver of amusement at the spectacle, but it faded when Guzma locked eyes with her.

 _Oh, no_.

And true to her dread, he started for her, dragging his dainty, porcelain doll of a fiancee behind him.

Plumeria tried to bury her horror by looking at the floor, but Nanu, tipsy from sequential beers and generally more open-minded anyhow, greeted them when they approached.

"Hey, lovebirds," he burbled. He pointed for the chairs across from them. "You gonna sit?"

Plumeria's fists tightened as she felt the overwhelming urge to knock him upside the head. But she didn't have a choice to even open her mouth to object; Guzma mumbled his assent and seated Lusamine at the table. To Lusamine's credit, she looked just as uncomfortable with the arrangement as Plumeria did, though she said nothing.

Then Guzma did an even worse thing: he left to retrieve food.

Nanu didn't seem bothered or concerned, though that was likely a side-effect of his drinking; he tilted back his bottle, scanned the skyline, and seemed to find amusement in private thoughts. Plumeria did her best to shovel food and pretend the woman wasn't there. Lusamine, sensing how unwelcome she was, sat glass-eyed and silent, enduring stares and the unrelenting thud of the grunts' music.

Out of boredom more than out of discomfort, Nanu broke the silence. "So what's the plan?"

Lusamine jumped in her seat, saw Nanu looking at her, and paled a little.

"You know. After the wedding? You could adopt all these gremlins; that'd give you something to fill your days."

"Ah―" She fluttered her eyelashes at first in confusion, then in gentle amusement when she realized he was joking. "Y-yes. It certainly would."

Plumeria released a singular, disgusted snort to express her feelings on the matter.

All of a sudden, Lusamine found strength to continue the half-hearted conversation. "How about you, Officer? Do you have plans?"

"Me? I'm too old to have plans."

"And you? What's in your near future, young lady?"

It took Plumeria an incredibly long, drawn-out second to notice that Lusamine had shown the _gall_ to address her with a question. The girl drew up her eyes, darkening them with with a low, hateful blink. She swallowed the food in her mouth and answered, "Hire Guzma a divorce lawyer."

Pleased by the fact that the girl spoke at all, Lusamine at last overcame her numbness and offered a sweet smile. "You have those? Lawyers crawling about in Po Town… I suppose I wouldn't be shocked. They are disgusting lowlives."

"A-men," Nanu crowed.

Plumeria glowered at him, as if to say, _Just whose side are you on!?_

But Nanu must have known what he was doing; he smirked at her and drank his beer.

Thankfully, the conversation ceased in time for Guzma to reappear with Gladion and Lillie reluctantly in tow.

"...But do we _have_ to?"

"Yes."

"If I'm going to sit here," Gladion said, "I'm going to need another beer."

"No you _don't_." With a free hand, Guzma scuffed the hood of Gladion's shirt. "Quit bein' a drama queen."

Nanu, reading the additional bodies as an ever-growing intrusion on his privacy, eyed them as they settled into seats and nearly said something before he thought better of it. Thus, with no more interruption or protest, the whole lot sat for supper: Nanu and Plumeria on one side, Gladion and Lillie tucked on another, and Guzma with his arm around a tolerant Lusamine's shoulders.

Though Guzma had orchestrated this arrangement by force, he did not readily confess its reasoning. Despite time passing, the awkwardness didn't lift, so they ate in pensive silence, clinking their forks against china and shifting their eyes in a desperate attempt not to engage one another.

Guzma at last shot a glare around, attempting to understand their body language before abruptly yawping, "Why's everyone so quiet!?"

Plumeria snorted and stuck a bite of food in her mouth; the children shared looks; Lusamine sighed; Nanu, of all of them, had the gall to answer him: "You ain't very good at reading situations, are you."

Guzma glowered.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining."

"Okay, G, enlighten us. What's with the powwow?" Plumeria asked, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. "Like, you got something you wanna say?"

"No," Guzma said. All of a sudden, the frustration marring his expression crumbled. He dropped his hands. "No, not really, I…" When he read their faces now, he could see their confusion more clearly; he struggled to put words together. "It's just, this is our last night, and… Tomorrow, everything's gonna be different. We're all goin' different ways, and it might the last time we… Anyway, I get it, y'all don't really like each other, maybe you don't even like _me_ all that much, but it doesn't matter because, because you're all important to me―"

The discomfort at the table only exponentially grew as he rattled on, so Lusamine attempted to save them all some face by touching his arm and whispering in falsely-cheerful manner, "I think… You've had one too many drinks…"

Like a rolling boom of thunder, his fist struck the table, shaking the plates and glassware and successfully startling all of them.

He roared. "Can I just! Be serious for one minute of my stupid life!?"

His fiancee recoiled. The rest of them assented through silence. He was clearly shaking and puffed from exertion, but relaxed when he saw he was not to be challenged.

"Alright! So! I'm gonna need everybody to just _chill_ and pretend to get along!"

After a bit of uneasy shuffling, the quiet resumed. Guzma took that time to replace his arm at Lusamine's shoulders, cross his legs, and eye them as if they were a pack of miscreant children about ready to squabble.

"Glad."

Gladion twitched his head up.

"Talk." The order was spat, not said.

"...Uh… About?"

"I don't care," Guzma vexed. "Anything. Just _talk_."

"Um…" The boy plucked at his food, saw the trepidation in everyone's faces, and decided to fight back. "So about that battle―when's our rematch going―"

Guzma broke; all his dire attitude flew out, replaced with a more relatable, and certainly more familiar, air of petulance. He threw up his hands. "Ugh! Never mind. Lillie! Your turn."

* * *

The night burned out at last, having started with a powerful, scorched red bronzing the horizon before succumbing to black smoke. As the last of the sky's blue wrinkled away and the last of the stars showed their timid faces, the luminescence of the decorations came into fuller view, casting blonde, milky light over the ship. Despite the fact that the grunts didn't change their behavior (especially as the food disappeared into their hungry maws), and despite the continuing lack of real conversation aside from Lillie's patient babbling, Lusamine could feel her muscles relaxing a little. The harshness of the day slept; tomorrow began its proud, forward stride.

If she shut her eyes, she could feel the subtle rocking of the ship above the inky waves of night. She nearly dozed off when Guzma gave her a nervous shake.

"You okay?"

"Oh…" She leaned back into his arm. "I'm alright."

He made note of something and mumbled privately into her ear, "You didn't eat much, Lu."

Because her stomach still self-assaulted and churned with noxious juices. Not that she would say that.

But though she didn't say anything, somehow he knew. He took her by the wrist and interrupted Lillie, who was in the middle of describing her training with Hala. "We're gonna take a minute," he said.

He stood and brought Lusamine with him; both of them pretended not to notice the slackening of tension once they wandered away from the table, and they weaved between errant grunts until they reached the railing, at which he let her stand and suck in the dark, empty air.

Lusamine stood with her arms outstretched and her lungs subsuming air to the point of dizziness. Behind them, the grunts had taken to dancing to the racket they called music, and the cacophony filled her head with jarring crunches noises and hammers on nails.

Guzma stroked her hair and watched her suffering. "Anything I can do?"

"...The music is giving me a headache."

He jumped. She needn't breathe another syllable; he marched over to where the grunts were attempting a new dance set and made his claim, declaring that it was "time for adult music."

And so within seconds, the music clicked off, fizzled white, then washed in again like a lapping wave against soft sand. Instead of electrical thuds or harsh, combative lyrics, there came a twinkle of jazzy piano, the croon of sensual brass, the _tisk-tisk-tisk_ of cymbals, and the silken warble of a clarinet. Upon hearing it, she felt like she had fallen into the distant past; she recognized its perfect balance of sweetness, passion, and melancholy, the way both singer and band could summon the bitterness of past loss and a hope for present longings. It brought her mind back to countless other dinner parties, at which such music was drowned out by grown laughter, the pop of sparkling champagne bottles, the click of heels, and the clean clink of silverware.

Here, it competed with the complaining of obstinate thugs and pulling of chairs and dropping of items on the floor. Hardly a romantic venue. Still, Guzma pulled away from the sound system, ignored the plaintive whines of his former fellows, approached Lusamine, and watched her expression carefully to gauge her response.

"Is that... good?"

She held her breath for a few more chords, but came to only exhale and not answer.

His expression changed as a thought occurred to him. "Hey." Guzma stood before her and proffered a hand. "Dance with me."

"Dance?" She was shocked. In her momentary disbelief, she glanced about at their surroundings, which had not changed: children and teenagers. She noted their growing ogling at them and backed away against the railing. "...Everyone's looking at us."

"So!? You like havin' people look at you."

She flashed him a mildly offended look.

"I mean―you know. You like attention. Can't deny that."

Guzma may have been right to suggest her highest fantasy was sparkling pristinely in the spotlight, but he wrongly assumed this did not hinge on other factors. Her ultimate nightmare scenario, indeed, was not of being ignored, but of being unprepared for the spotlight―of it shining on her in a moment of weakness. She did not want her humiliation and shame broadcasted. And she felt sharp misgivings at the thought of waltzing with a partner who meant to leave her, and before an audience of slack-jawed delinquents, at that. A dance of defeat. What choice would the children have but to mock her? Pity her?

"C'mon." Guzma still had his hand out and began to bounce impatiently. "I promise it won't hurt."

...Unless he hadn't practiced his steps well enough; then it just might. She frowned and puzzled over his earnestness. Guzma couldn't be called shy, as he often called attention to himself in ridiculous ways, but like her, he resisted doing anything potentially foolish in front of others. The prospect of embarrassment usually paralyzed him.

He begged some more, then grabbed her when he tired of pleading. She didn't fight it, but allowed herself to be swept up against his chest. His solid, powerful hands pressed at her back and eventually cradled the softness of her right hand into his palm; her ear rested against his breast to hear the rattling of his heart and lungs; without much seriousness, he pulled her out into the middle of the floor, swaying her the best he could to the rhythm of the thrumming cello. She spun. Blood throbbed and swelled in her head, drowning her in a sudden influx of dizziness.

Suddenly, she snared his shirt between her fingers and pleaded, "Not so fast. Not so…"

After hearing her desperation and feeling the clamminess of her palm, he complied, slowing their movement to a sluggish, dreamlike rocking. Abruptly, he snorted and cried, " _Ah, shut up_ ," which she quickly realized was not addressed to her, but to a pack of jeering boys. Their giggles punctuated the musical strains, but Guzma seemed happy to otherwise ignore them.

She thought she might pass out in the warm cusp of his arms, where her toes barely crossed the floor as he dragged her about. He could lift her so carelessly that she felt weightless, almost suspended.

She could take no more.

She crushed her face into the fabric at his chest and sobbed. "...Why are you doing this to me?"

Confused, he stuttered their dance to a standstill. He waited for her to lift her face and explain, but when she wouldn't, he worriedly touched her shoulders. "Doing what?"

"If you loved me, you'd make this easy."

"...'Easy'?"

"Can't you see? How much you're hurting me!?"

His fingers twisted in the skin at her arms. He murmured, "I just… I just wanted to do something nice for you…"

"Nice? Nice!?" At last she wrenched her face away, glared up at his puzzled expression, and snarled her words. "If you want to do something for me, then say that you hate me. Tell me the thought of me makes your stomach turn―"

"But I don't…" He chewed the inside of his cheek. "I don't feel that way."

"How can you say that!"

Guzma paused to look both ways past his shoulders; he uneasily returned her icy gaze to attempt, "Miss, you gotta chill. They lookin' at you―"

Indeed, true to his word, the lazy chatter of the grunts had disappeared, replaced with a tense, morbidly curious silence.

But Lusamine didn't care. Anger stabbed at her temples, stung her eyes, scraped her throat. She bristled and hissed. "Are you so addicted to being abused? Does it give you pleasure?"

Against the budding starlight, his face remained dark and cool as obsidian. His eyes watched her but he didn't even twitch his lips to speak.

She snaked her hands up to his chest. Wearing a cruel sneer, she teased her nails against the fabric of his shirt and purred too softly for anyone else to hear, "Tell me. Does it get you off, Guzma?"

He should have broken. He should have lashed out and punished her, just as the familiar cycle went: the game she played with everyone. _I'll scratch you, and you scratch me back_.

Guzma, though, simply put his hands on hers, twisted them away until their joints pinched in pain, and sank his eyes into hers like he meant to swallow her up in his shadow. He didn't make a face to imply disdain or wrath, but his uttering spoke for itself, as it came out crisp and daring over his lips: "There ain't _nothing_ you can do to hurt me anymore."

Like he had plunged a knife into her, she yanked her hands away and threw herself back, nearly losing her footing as she did. She whirled around. All their faces seemed to be locked onto hers, blank and terrifying as the gaze of the moon. She clawed at the air as if she could wipe their appearance away, or at least stir up the darkness to ripple them out of view, but they remained, judging, peering. She grabbed hold of something solid and cool―too late, she realized it was a crystal vase―and without thinking, hurled it in the direction of her attacker. But Guzma knocked her arm and the vase went fumbling and crashing onto the floor without any forward trajectory. Water and flowers and billions of sparks of glass splashed at her feet.

Yipes of excitement came from the crowd.

She screamed, even attempted to clobber him though his arms easily deflected her. "I thought there could be something good in you, but there isn't! You're a monster! You're worse than a monster!"

Guzma didn't answer. Wouldn't. He just wrestled her arms still and gave her a look of disappointment, as if she had failed some test.

That was when all the sickness caught up with her and she had no choice but to turn, crunch the broken glass under her feet, and run.

"Hey, no fair!" one grunt whined as she went. "How come she gets to break stuff an' we can't?"

Guzma shoved the kid aside and went after her.

* * *

She hit the stairwell, didn't take it―turned a sharp left and through a glass door, and then made it as far as the navigation wing when her stomach flipped and revolted. She stumbled inside, ignored the startled looks of the crew members, and promptly vomited into an available garbage can.

As if the humiliation of that wasn't enough, she heard Guzma approach from behind, sigh, and weave his fingers through her hair to pull it back and away from her face. She didn't wish to tolerate it, but the second wave hit, and she held the rim of the can in a death-grip as she emptied her stomach. He rubbed her back in tight circles, in a manner that suggested he knew it was a thing one should do, despite not knowing why or how to do it. It succeeded in recovering some of her strength, at least, so that she could begin to stand more firmly on two feet.

She heard the exchange of voices and queries fly over her head. A few grunts stuck their head in the door but were chased away by Guzma's verbal warnings; a few crew members ventured close to see if they could be any help; and finally, her children caught up to similarly gawk at the spectacle. She wanted to sink into the sea and never resurface.

"...Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Guzma said.

"Is she seasick?"

"She's _fine_."

Gladion, after a moment of thinking on it, asked, "Is it a side effect?"

"He's poisoned me," Lusamine abruptly wailed. She gagged on the powerfully revolting taste scorching her throat.

"Nobody's poisoned you," Guzma scolded. He continued to rub her back and eased his words back into assurance. "Mr. Faba said you might get nauseous; you'll feel better in a second."

She moaned, but despite some hitched breathing and suddenly weakened knees, the worst seemed to have passed.

("Mr. Faba?" Lillie asked.)

("I'll explain later," Gladion hurriedly dismissed.)

The whole lot of them acted like this was an emergency affair. One crew member fetched her water, another found a cloth and wetted it to hold against her forehead, Guzma dragged her limp form toward the chairs lining the wall, and her children, unsure what to do, guided him and even maneuvered her limbs when she was spilled upright into a seat. It was a whole lot of fuss that Lusamine might have normally enjoyed receiving, if it weren't for the horrible indignity of it all.

She flopped, sticky with sweat and all a-flush, tilting with only just enough strength to sit up. The water was accepted happily, but only tentatively sipped at, and the cloth touched her forehead like a delicious, heavenly kiss, washing away the last of her dizziness.

After Guzma dismissed the helpful crew, she cracked her moisture-dabbed eyes open to see a row of concerned looks she hadn't asked for. She hissed. "You can all drop… Those unconvincing, worried faces…"

"Miss, are you all right?"

" _You_ ," she said, narrowing her eyes at Guzma, "did that on _purpose_. Just so you can play the hero."

"You were stressin' yourself too much," he countered.

The plastic cup in her hand flew and clipped his leg, splattering the remaining water at his feet. "And what could possibly be the source of all that stress!?"

"Mother," Gladion said, "calm down. You'll get sick again…"

"This man is tormenting your mother! Why don't you do something about it!"

The dramatics finally got to Gladion. The boy put his hands to his hips and gave her a firm, unamused glare. "I highly doubt that's true."

Lusamine threw back her shoulders and head against the wall and made sounds of irreparable woe. "He's abandoning me! Leaving me to die alone!"

Understandably, Guzma was a bit put-off that their private, intimate conversation about the possible future of their relationship would be so wildly, inaccurately, and thoughtlessly dragged out before her two children. He fumed. "Would you _stop_!"

"He's trying to assuage his conscience with all these gestures. Isn't it obvious? He knows he's guilty."

Gladion was about to cut in with a rather cruel, indifferent assessment of the situation, but Lillie, suddenly full of compassion, reached out and placed a hand on her mother's knee. She pleaded quietly, "Mama. Let me help."

Lusamine twisted her leg away like she was a germ. Disdain crossed her expression. "...You? _Help_? How could you possibly do that? What use are you to _anyone_?"

Guzma stepped forward. "All right," he grunted, taking Lillie's shoulder and prying her back, "forget it. Let's just go."

"Yes," Lusamine taunted. " _Do go_."

But she failed to draw him into any further combat; Lillie gave a pining look over her shoulder, but allowed Guzma to lead her for the door in silence.

When the door opened, Guzma paused in the doorway and noticed Gladion still standing firm before his mother. "Glad."

"Give me a minute."

That also elicited no response from Guzma other than a skeptical look. He sighed, and the two disappeared back out onto the ship's deck.

* * *

Though Gladion could have started his planned appeal immediately, he stood with the patience of a saint, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes trailing along the blank wall of the hallway. If he was waiting for her to say something, then she was determined to let him continue; she squeezed the last of the water droplets from the cloth at her forehead and shut her eyes to sink into meditation. His presence proved annoying, but not disruptive. She could stay here. Hide from the noise and the staring from her guests. Hide from fate.

He watched her carefully in spite of it, a fact she only discerned because whenever her eyes flitted open, his studious, iron gaze was upon her. That, too, she tried to ignore.

A minute or so passed. He decided not to stall any longer. "Mother. I know you may not want to hear it now, but time is running out. I have a proposal to make."

She felt her lip curl. "Oh?"

"I've been following Aether Paradise. The circumstances there aren't good. Its new direction has jolted investors; donations are down. Employees―including, apparently, top brass―are jumping ship. It seems to me new leadership might be in order."

"New. Leadership." The two words bounced back-and-forth in her brain. She scowled. "I see. And I suppose you have a suggestion."

"A suggestion… A request."

Because Gladion had floated this particular idea before, she silently awaited his reiteration.

"Let me run Aether."

She stiffly turned away and gurgled, "...What a joke."

Like he hadn't even heard her, he tapped his chin with thought and elaboration. "Of course there would be stipulations. This isn't a request to be your son again; I would want legal independence, my own living quarters, control over my own finances…"

"What makes you think you can manage any of it? You're merely a child."

"I'm your son. You raised me to be ready to hold the Foundation. Or are you suggesting you failed?"

"You…!" Had she the strength, she would flown at him and taught him a lesson in getting smart; as it was, she clutched her skirt and growled. "You… You and your Type: Null… How alike the two of you are… All the intricate planning that went into you, and what became of it!? Both of you were monumental failures!"

"I think it rather depends on your perspective."

"You could have been like your father," she roared. "You could have been _so much more_!"

The transparency of the comment made Gladion fold his hands and blink at her. "Instead, I turned out like you." His stern expression softened with strange sympathy. "That must have been disappointing."

She nearly shrieked. In lieu of throwing anything else and screaming, she punctured her palm with the edge of her fingernails. Pain rolled in with thick slabs of tears coursing down the slope of her cheeks. She couldn't hope to respond to his harsh utterance of truth, so she resorted to whining again. "It isn't _fair_ ," she sobbed. "You don't know what you're asking of me. Aether is all I have left. It would be easier to ask for me to carve out my beating heart for you."

"This isn't a robbery."

"No, it's _murder_!" She collapsed into her seat and threw her face into her hands, and she wailed, overwhelmed with grief. "How can this be? How can my own child be so _awful_ and _cruel_?"

Gladion had no marveling or disapproval left. At that moment, he felt he had seen and heard everything from her. He put his foot down. "You think I'm your enemy. But you've always been your own worst enemy, Mother. On the one hand, you want people and pokemon to be your playthings―but on the other, you can't help yourself, can you? When you love something, you slave over it. You make improvements, build on it… You bring out its strengths, and then those strengths come back to bite you." He dwelled on this fact for a while, then began listing examples: "You could have spoiled me, but you pushed me instead. I grew stronger for it… Strong enough to push back. Lillie, too, in her own way. Perhaps you thought you were crushing her, but she learned to stand up for herself. And Guzma… You trained him well, didn't you? Now, he doesn't even need you. Then there's Faba―" He stopped there, figuring she got the point. "Children grow up. Relationships change. People move on… That fact is not a personal slight. Maybe you ought to learn to appreciate rather than resent it."

Gladion found it impossible to tell how much his mother had heard, and even more impossible to tell how much she had understood.

She gave some hint, though, when she complained, "And what of me? What happens to me?"

He shrugged. "You might try your hand at changing, too. Who knows what might happen." He almost let himself smile, but kept himself serious so that he could plead, "Promise me you'll consider it."

Lusamine went stone quiet.

He took it, at best, as a willingness to try. "Well… I can see you have plenty to think over. I'll… I'll leave you to it."

* * *

Life, or death?

Meaning, or annihilation?

Her foes put these before her and acted as if they represented true choices, rather than traps meant to snare her into compliance. And by each choice, they pushed her to destroy another part of her.

As she sat entirely alone now in the hall, with only the shadows of people moving outside the windows, casting their undefined shapes on the wall, she could not summon any more anger. All that was left was self-pity, coming in the form of dribbling tears.

She gripped her stomach and cried out to no one.

"Is that all there is? Is that my fate forever? To cut and cut and cut away at myself, until there's nothing left!?"

No one answered.

Outside, just visible under the faint glow of the display lights, she could see Guzma and Lillie. It took some careful watching to discern that they were dancing. The music hadn't been changed over from the smooth jazz, so the two were alone in their revelry; perhaps Guzma wanted to cheer Lillie up. In any case, neither dance partner seemed to be taking the activity very seriously, as he flung and spun at rather dangerous speed, and she screamed―then laughed―then screamed again.

Like a hungry worm, the thought of Mohn burrowed into her brain, and it took everything in her not to vomit once more.

She stepped outside. The wind threw her hair about, momentarily blinding her, but she was able to maneuver it until it billowed as a steady, gold banner against the breeze. The dark had swallowed up everything; there was little to see but the suggestions of light coming from the celestial bodies.

A woman's voice, distorted by the speaker's blaring, sang of sweet love amidst the passionate swelling of strings.

Lusamine took hold of the railing like it might save her. But the tune weakened her knees, and her head rolled, her body swayed to the plucking of her strings. A smell wafted over the air, indiscernible, and she felt a sudden mad, animal desire to strip off all her clothes, and stand naked and open to all the elements.

Every bit of curling, knotted blackness in her began to jerk and unwind itself.

She didn't want things to untangle. By the very binding and twisting up of everything inside her, she felt safe, woven into place, like nothing could ever budge or change.

 _Change_. That was the smell passing over her. Sickly sweet, dangerous, and tinged with uncertainty. It drowned her in possibility and filled her lungs. She couldn't escape it. Even if she ran now as fast as she could, it would catch up to her, knock her down, and show her a thing or two about the folly of eternity.

If she could bottle up the essence of this night, its pearly moon and dewdrop stars, its salty breeze, hissing waters, and vibrant song, and bottle it all up into an elixir to be kept forever, she would. But all she had now was fickle memory, which would surely corrupt the details, confuse colors, faces, and words. This night would never happen again, and she would never truly know what it was.

One by one, the cords untangled and went hissing over the edge of the ship, only to plunge into the black waves. And once it all went away―what could possibly be left?

* * *

Over the next few hours, the party resumed without her. There were fits and spurts of drama and intrigue. Arguments and jokes. Different dances and music. At one point, some grunts arrived with full-size display fireworks that they had liberated from some storage area, and Plumeria had to play the role of stern mother before anyone could blow the ship to smithereens.

"No. Somebody's gonna _die_. Or lose fingers."

Nanu unhelpfully said, "Aw, let 'em at it. Losing limbs builds character."

(The grunts, hearing this, decided to do something else.)

But upon nearing midnight, activity began to wind down. Despite their bragging of their ability to party all night long, most of them were children, after all, and they started to lag and droop as the early morning edged in. Full of food and liquor, and spent of their excess energy, they draped over chairs and floors and vehemently denied being tired. Even when eyes were rubbed and yawns got longer, or when heads lolled heavy, they didn't move to vacate the premises.

It took executive action to shoo them away.

"It's time to go, y'all," Plumeria said.

They moaned.

"C'mon, c'mon. I ain't sayin' you gotta _sleep_ , just go to your rooms or whatever. It's lights out. You know the drill."

So began to trailing of feet down the stairs. Plumeria circulated the rooftop deck, spotted slumbering or distracting bodies, and shook them awake. Nanu didn't help and hurried out of sight; he had sworn off babysitting. Guzma, then, as the only other person who could remotely qualify as an adult, took to shaking off young people's sleep as well.

Gladion and Lillie had nodded off―the boy with his head on a table, and Lillie, clutching her snoring Yungoos, conked out on her brother's shoulder.

Guzma briefly thought _blackmail material_ , then let the amusing thought go.

"Hey!" He shook both their heads, successfully mussing their hair and startling them awake. "Up 'n' at it. We're outta here."

Gladion, for a second, looked entirely stupefied by his surroundings. He blinked away the grogginess gumming his eyesight. "Huh?" He glanced left, then right. He saw mostly empty seats, as most of the grunts had left already. "What time is it?"

"Obviously _way_ past your bedtime." Guzma disregarded the expected withering look. "We're goin' downstairs. Come on."

Lillie yawned and rubbed her eyes, but refused to open them, like she thought she could cling to her blissful sleep a little longer by staying in the dark. She whined, "Can you carry me?"

Guzma appropriately balked. " _No._ Nobody's carrying you, ya spoiled princess. You gotta walk like everybody else."

She released a complaint in the form of a mumble and groan, but within a few seconds of being conscious, she gained the strength and faculty to find her own footing and trudge vaguely zombie-like after her brother.

Guzma tracked back to the navigation hallway which had gone dark and left Lusamine to doze off in her chair. Guzma had seen her venture out earlier in the evening, but she never came close to mingling or rejoining the festivities.

She looked so peaceful, slumped over where she was, that he almost didn't want to wake her, but she couldn't well spend the night like that. He shook her by the shoulder, and she slid her eyes open in a graceful movement, like she had stirred from a pleasant dream. She looked up at him, doe-eyed and spent.

"Time to go," he told her.

Lusamine scraped at the very bottom to return with a sliver of humor. "Bedtime?"

"Yeah."

"So it's over?"

He began to wonder what these questions were really about. "Uh, yeah."

"And I missed it," she said, sounding a bit sorry.

"Uh-huh. Okay, _come on_."

She held up limp, pathetic arms and pleaded, "Help me."

Guzma started by lifting her by her arms, but she wound them about his neck and began to tug herself upward, at which point he realized what she meant by 'help.' He rolled his eyes and compliantly scooped her up beneath her legs and balanced her at his chest. "Spoiled," he uttered.

Before he hoisted her outside, she fixed her nails against the thin skin of his neck and circled. He paused only because he recognized it as a gesture of contemplation.

"So… You decided?"

"You already know my answer," she said bitterly.

"Then…" His chest compressed with the release of a sigh. "We'll have to… Work things out for tomorrow…"

"I don't want tomorrow to come."

"Well, uh…" Guzma hesitated. "There's no delaying the ship―"

"No, no, not what's happening tomorrow―I don't want tomorrow, the day, the very idea of it…"

"Oh." He thought long and hard on that. "Uhh, I can't really do nothin' about that. I think they got legendaries that can control time out there, but they ain't in Alola, so…"

Was he teasing or being earnest? Either way, she felt her heart swell, and overcome by it, she buried her face in his shoulder. "You're a sweet boy."

"Mmm." Guzma grunted and didn't sound happy. "If you say so."

Lusamine put a hand to his boney cheek. He had corners and flesh, softness and roughness. The strength of a bear ready to crush her, but without the malice that would drive him to it. He was―infuriating. And addicting.

She didn't understand the meaning of letting go. But she knew fairy tales: the stories of princesses who loved beasts too much, and tethered them to their thrones until the beasts turned and devoured them. The wiser ones feel the tension in the chains and cut them loose before it was too late.

She told herself that―to lie and say she was afraid, and not courageous. Because it was easier to be afraid than brave.

"Guzma."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever traveled overseas?"

"Nope."

"That's a shame. Alola―is a beautiful region, but there's so much in the world to see."


	35. Aloha 'Oe

Mohn, more than anything, loved fireworks. If he were given the authority, ability, or resources to do so, he would have set them off every night and sat on a hill just to watch them streak the sky and thunder their brilliance over the world. He loved the color, the splash, the way the noise billowed out in a wave that could knock you off your feet, all the controlled chaos, the stench of gunpowder that lingered in the aftermath.

Lusamine tolerated his childlike fascination with such displays, though she preferred any other sort of spectacle. Fireworks, she argued, were far too noisy and ephemeral. One second they consume the world, the next they fizzle into nothing. There's no time to analyze or ponder anything. There's no studying it. Give her a grand painting, an instrumental performance, a dance, or a poem. Give her a thing that lasts and can be recorded and kept.

Mohn argued that was the beauty of it. That it is only there a second before it flies to your memory.

But she couldn't accept that.

And when he went―

How she lived out that agony over and over.

She embalmed, preserved, froze, and mummified everything that she loved. Better to kill a thing than to lose it. Better to have its shape and form suspended in crystal, amber, ice, so that she could admire it forever.

Still, she dreamed of fireworks.

They alight his eyes and set her tongue aflame. He tastes like sparks and iron, the hot hissing of copper chloride.

* * *

The taste of sulfur still lingered on her lips when she awoke.

It was too early yet to get up and move around, but it felt too late to drift back into sleep. Sunlight had just began to break over the horizon, leaving the room in a deep, enriching morning blue, and the ship rocked in a lullaby sway. From under the covers, she peeked her eyes out into the room, but not before she sensed the weight of a body next to her.

Her memory sizzled. Her hand pressed atop the lump and confirmed it to be alive and breathing, so with quaking breathlessness, she peeled the top layer away to reveal her company.

Soft, small, slumbering, pale, golden locks. An angel. Lillie curled beneath the comforter, resting on her side and so deep in sleep that she didn't so much as twitch as Lusamine uncovered her.

She watched for a little while as the girl's arms rose and fell with intake of breath. Then she let the cover fall back over her.

Upon sitting up, Lusamine came to remember the events of the previous night leading up to this sleeping arrangement. Lillie chose to join her here; Guzma and Gladion, by now, must be asleep on their respective couches.

That they all piled into the same suite together had been a decision made last minute, and not by the consent of all involved. Guzma brought her here and they remained in the suite alone for some time, before Gladion and Lillie arrived to pound on the door and invite themselves in. Lillie gave the more innocent reasoning of _we thought we'd keep you company!_ , but both Guzma and Lusamine could see other thoughts brewing in Gladion's expression. Like he knew what was up and _wasn't having it_.

It didn't matter. The children bantered and argued, temporarily energized by their invasion, but they barely touched their heads to their pillows before they were out again.

Despite everything, having them there… Having them occupy space made sleep come easier. It made the suite feel lived in, and it brought a sort of comfort she couldn't remember ever feeling before.

Lusamine lay down again and oscillated between fits of wakefulness and slumber, until the dim and sleepy colors of the room bled into the brilliant fabric of dreams. It was a thud from the kitchen space that eventually brought her back into the real world, where now the morning began to warm the sea with light. She listened before she got up. Footsteps pounded the floor, circulating the living room and then tracing the formation of the kitchen cabinets. They had the heft and gracelessness of a certain young man.

She sat up and reached the floor with her feet. It was only when she took a few steps that she realized how light she felt, like she was walking on air. The sluggishness and sickly feeling had faded like dew. In fact, this feeling was so alien to her, so new, that it spooked her. But the transcendence faltered after a few moments, bringing her back down to earth and settling her into a normal state. She felt again the typical, small pains, irritations, aches, itches, and worries that all living things must suffer perpetually.

On bare feet, she ventured toward the kitchen. She passed through the living room space first, where one couch had upturned blankets and pillows to signify its sleeper had gone off, and the couch opposite was still occupied by her son. She didn't pause to pester the sleeping boy, or even steal a touch of his hair.

Instead, she watched Guzma.

He rustled through cabinets, evidently searching for something; he didn't notice her, as her footsteps had been silent over the carpeted floor.

She decided to alert him to her presence with a soft-spoken, "Good morning."

He startled and turned, clutching a tin can of coffee grounds. His nerves lessened only slightly at seeing her, and he returned, a bit too loudly, "Morning." He hadn't shaken off all his sleep, as his eyelids still lay heavy over his stony eyes, and he moved with the deliberate, slothful pacing that meant every shift was being forced on a body that craved collapse. He blinked with curiosity and set down the can. "You look good."

She stared at him, eyes round with sudden sorrow.

"I mean, you look better. Than yesterday. You feel any better?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "Perhaps."

The cryptic answer drove him to fidget and draw out another can from the cupboard.

"And what are you up to?"

"Just seein' what's in stock here. There's coffee stuff―you want coffee?" Before she could answer, he craned his neck to see the children slumbering the morning away. "They gotta get up," he complained. After making this observation, he nearly pushed past her to shake and holler them awake, but she, anticipating what he meant to do, snagged him and talked him down.

"Don't," she pleaded. She rested her head on his arm. "Let them sleep."

"They gotta pack."

"You know they hardly brought anything. And there's time yet." She gave him a cooling smile. "And, oh, look―they're so peaceful."

He was not impressed. "E'erybody looks peaceful when they asleep, Miss L. Even you."

"You just want to get rid of them because you're planning horrible things with me." She teased now, and Guzma looked down from where he towered over her in height; in her cheekiness, she whirled about and seized him around the waist.

He didn't resist but didn't relax either. "That what you think?"

"You were a little cross when they appeared last night."

"'Cause Glad thinks he's slick," Guzma muttered.

"He's only looking out for his mother's honor."

Guzma snorted. Absentmindedly, he rested his wrists over her shoulders and so for the moment, they slumped and looked out over the suite together. "He needs to stay outta grown folks' business."

The bottoms of her naked feet felt the chill of the tile while Guzma stood in socks; somehow, for Lusamine, this minor state of undress was enough to make the situation feel intimate. Their toes were close. His hands were heavy, and his breaths hot over her scalp. To distract herself from the dizzying proximity, she gossiped. "Gladion has always been very opinionated about the men who've courted me."

"Yeah? He chase them all off?"

"Chase? Oh, no. He didn't manage that." She dwelled on her memories as she watched him sleep. A smirk tugged her lips. "He bit one."

"He―what? _Bit_?"

"Yes, well, that was years ago. And that one deserved it, anyhow."

"He ever bites _me,_ and I'm havin' him put down," Guzma said. He took hold of her arms and pushed them off to unfasten himself, then returned to the counter to assess their breakfast options.

His pulling away brought back the wave of emotions she had put off until this second. She reeled and had to put a hand on the entranceway to keep herself stable. The ship would be landing in a few hours. Everything would be over. Her mouth fell open to pour out her lament, but it stopped in her throat, lodging like a stone between her stomach and tongue. What right did she have to complain? Only after he put the hot water on did she find words to say. "It's so easy… To talk… As if… Nothing's the matter…"

The frailty of her words made him turn again; her vision clouded as tears welled up, and she fully expected that when he saw them, he would lavish her with assurance and comfort. But he looked at her, brow furrowed, and watched her until tears overcame her. And even then, he didn't move. He had his hands in his pockets and he muttered, "That's 'cause nothin' _is_ the matter."

Like a child, she smudged her cheeks with the palms of her hands.

"Things'll be _different_. But you gotta get better. And―" He averted his gaze. "I gotta get better. That's the whole point."

"And what if…" Lusamine's chin bobbed where she swallowed down a knot of grief. "What if nothing changes?"

"I don't know," he said sharply, as if he disliked the question. "Things gotta change eventually."

Guzma couldn't have thoroughly investigated this theory, but it struck truthfully enough that she found some small solace in it. He still didn't make any move toward her, however, so she remained alone, barefoot, and wiping tears, longing for the world to revolve and go quickly, so that the pain of growing would end or pass by entirely. For that time, mere feet from him, she felt more alone than she had in years, like an ocean lay between them.

Then he sighed, breached the sandy shore where grief lapped up at her, and handed her the first cup of coffee. The steam rose up to her face, kissing her.

* * *

The ship blared its horn over and over, blasting like a tantruming beast until it sent the entire population out to the main deck. The collection of newly-awakened Team Skull grunts crowded first at the stairwell, but made their way to the railing looking toward the ship's crowning destination: the tall, white obelisk of metal and ideals, Aether Paradise. The pillar crested over the shining waves as the first sign of human life they had seen on the ocean in two days, and the children actually expressed some enthusiasm at seeing it. Finally, something to break the monotony.

Plumeria and Nanu, as they had most of this particular trip, stood close together at the railing and mulled on some matters, though they didn't have much privacy. A crew of grunts occupied either side of them, pushing on their arms to sidle in and get a better view. Nanu put up with this better than she did; he ended up with a girl's head under his elbow, which he used as an armrest, and two boys crunching up against his other arm. To celebrate the end of the cruise, Plumeria as well as the others now donned their full Team Skull gear again, draped in bandanas, chains, and skull-cap hats. It seemed none of them were quite ready to grow up.

"Guess this is it," Plumeria declared, forcefully shoving a boy's head away from her.

"Yup. That was…" Nanu scratched his chin in thought. "Maybe the second best wedding I've been to."

Plumeria, amused and intrigued, asked, "What was the first?"

"Well, uh―" Nanu noted the presence of minors. "That story's a little R-rated."

Nene poked his head out. "Hey, that's the white-hats' place," he noted. "How we gettin' back to Po Town?"

Nanu scanned the foundation and pointed to a collection of black-and-white boats docked at the island. "I think _those_ are your rides."

Chops had sharp enough eyesight to identify their designation and squeak, "Hey, who called the cops!?"

"Nobody had to call," Nanu said, leaving out the implied ' _idiot_.' "They've kept an eye on us this whole time."

"They gonna have to catch me!" Chops brayed. He puffed his chest and began waving his arms in typical thug fashion.

"No, they are _not_." Nanu fixed a tired, serious glare on them. "You jokers are gonna line up all proper and orderly."

"Aw, c'mon Uncle―"

As best he could, Nanu boomed his voice for all to hear. "Anybody runs, I thump 'em when I catch 'em. Sooner this is over with, the sooner I get home."

"We can outrun you, old man," one girl jeered.

He pulled his lip up into a nasty sneer. "Better _pray_ that you can."

They believed his threat, but as they had no intention of testing him, they freely giggled.

And so, over the deck of the boat, while Nanu cringed and fruitlessly tried to stave off the noise with his hands at his ears, the chanting, hooting, yapping, and howling continued: "Yeah, boy! Back to holdin' it down in Po Town, yeah!"

Team Skull was so busy and so raucous that it didn't notice the Aether family―or the best approximation of it available―coming down the stairs to join them.

The wedding couple strode forward first. Lusamine and Guzma walked with a strange mix of warm and cold body language; arms resting business-like at their sides, posture relaxed but not leaning for one another. They did not touch, but they still moved together as one unit of sorts, taking the same pace and making the same turns. Their dress spoke most loudly of their contrasting paths: Guzma resorted to putting on casual, comfortable attire, even with a hood flipped over his mussed hair, while she donned an obscenely attention-grabbing blue dress that hugged about her curvaceous form, fanning across her belly and breasts with lace and sequins. It screamed of crisis and desire. It did not, it seemed, have much of an effect on the boy.

Gladion and Lillie made their way down, but not in time to intercept a wave of grunts catching sight of the couple and turning to harass them.

"Mama G!"

"Yowza!"

A few boys pursued Lusamine with wolf whistles; Guzma bristled, but she pretended not to notice.

While a small crowd formed around the woman, it was Tiny and Trixie who once again wrestled their way to the front and made a point of forcing their presence on her. The twins oohed and pawed at her dress, made faces and stuck out their tongues when Guzma tried to intervene, and proceeded to ask invasive questions of the clearly exhausted woman.

"So this is it? But there wasn't a wedding!"

Guzma was about to bark his answer, but Lusamine planted a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder and leaned downward. She spoke in a careful, sweet way. "I know. I'm afraid it won't be happening."

"Aw. What a rip-off," Trixie groaned. "I ain't never been to one. I was gonna see the white dress and the flowers an' the―"

Lusamine stood up straight and marveled at the foolish prattle. The girl must suffer from a lack of linear thinking―how could she have possibly anticipated the wedding ceremony to go on unabated with Team Skull mucking around? Did she imagine the vows to take place while the grunts rioted in the back row?

"You'll have to do the wedding later?" Tiny asked.

"Yeah! When you have the real thing, you can just invite us," Trixie said, pointing to herself and her sister, "an' not these other rude boneheads."

Suddenly, Lusamine felt real, genuine pity for them. Children always imagined things mended so easily.

"Miss L." Guzma wrenched a few kids aside and took a place next to her. He towered over her and said, in a vaguely whiny tone, "You ain't gotta tell them all our personal business."

"Oh, I know, but..." Lusamine glanced up at him, her face supplicating, her hands searching. "The poor things have their hopes up."

"'Poor things'?" Guzma arched a glowering eyebrow at her. " _They busted up your wedding_. You don't hafta feel sorry for 'em just 'cause they're dumb."

"HEY!"

"Mind your own!" Guzma snarled back, reaching out to push at the twins, though they scuttled and side-stepped him.

"Can't we be honest?" Lusamine stole a glance past Guzma's ample frame, and saw Gladion and Lillie settling at the railing. "We already told the two."

"Whatta you talkin' about?" Trixie cut in, incensed that the couple was gossiping without her.

Lusamine made up her mind, and so without Guzma's blessing, clarified, "You won't be missing out; there isn't going to be a wedding at all."

It took only a few seconds for the twins to piece it together.

"ARE YOU BREAKING UP!?"

The screamed question crashed through the crowd like a ricocheted bullet; it elicited silence, then muttering, then loud, unrelenting speculation, mixed with expressions of shock and even grief. Plumeria might have initially planned Team Skull's invasion with the thought of sabotaging their romance, but the grunts hadn't intended on splitting a celebrity couple. It seemed that despite their outward shows of resentment, they had gotten attached to the whole idea.

Trixie in particular looked crestfallen and almost in tears.

"...Oh dear." Lusamine glanced back at Guzma, but as she had failed to heed his warning, he did not give her any sympathy. She would be digging herself out of this one. She lifted her hands in surrender. "Well, that is… It's complicated, and we're still sorting that out."

Trixie interpreted this as a euphemism, clasped her face and wailed. "But you're so cute together-r-r!"

A ripple of laughter echoed through the boys; the girls either joined in the giggling or cooed words of reassurance. Guzma could not huff and roll his eyes hard enough.

As Trixie was held and comforted by her twin, she whimpered, "It ain't our fault, is it!?"

Better to tell a simple lie than to try and explain an overly-complicated truth. "Oh, no, dear, not at all," Lusamine told her. Suddenly, her motherly instincts overtook her. She reached out and pulled the girl into an embrace, chiding the girl in an exasperated, amused fashion. "Good grief. Come here; don't cry. There, there. What a funny little creature you are..."

"What's with all the racket?" From the busy mix of preteen and teenage bodies, the kahuna elbowed his way toward the adults. He had just lit up a fresh cigarette, and used puffs of smoke to deter and blind anyone violating his personal space; he caught sight of them, saw the dewey-eyed girl clasped under Lusamine's willowy arms, and grunted an ashen cloud before his face. "Making these brats cry is _my_ job, lady."

"Kahuna Nanu. Good morning." Lusamine sloped her face and eyelashes downward, sinking herself into contemplation. "And so... Home at last… I suppose… I suppose police must be awaiting us, given the circumstances here."

"Uh-huh."

"They won't be pressing any charges, will they?"

Nanu lifted an eyebrow at the woman and pshawed. "What do I look like: judge, jury, executioner? I haven't a clue."

"But surely you can speak up for the children. After all, I permitted them to stay, and no one was hurt."

The request struck him. In his disbelief, he eyed Guzma, but the boy looked similarly puzzled by her extension of empathy. Nanu attempted to read her expression to spot the signs of madness, chemically-induced or otherwise, and though he couldn't be certain, she did have a peculiar glow about her. He would have made a quip― _what are you, on drugs_?-but decided against it, at least in front of the kids. "I'll―uh," he mumbled, scratching his scalp, "talk to Hitchens. It's the islands; they'll only get slapped with community service or something, anyway."

The Team Skull grunts, overhearing this, did _not_ take this as a gesture of mercy. "Community _what_?"

* * *

When the ship lodged into Aether Paradise, fitting its monstrous structure against the dwarfed landing dock, it became even more apparent how prepared the island was for this arrival. Attendants in bright white coats lined the walkway and formed a wall; on close examination, the travelers could see Faba and Aster waiting at the rim of the dock, chatting (bickering?) about something; several cops milled about, including Officer Hitchens lounging at some railing near a police boat. Adults stood everywhere, like they anticipated invasion.

This, combined perhaps with Nanu's earlier threats, dampened the enthusiasm the grunts might have had for a possible riot, which meant, aside from the typical running and shoving and cussing, deboarding Team Skull did not devolve as much as it could have. They filed down the stairs first, and rather forcefully at that, until they gathered in a tight cluster across from the police presence. They lingered, shoulder-to-shoulder, as if still contemplating whether to fight.

But Hitchens lifted himself off the railing and lumbered toward them. He did not look intimidated by their tough, arm-crossed stances. "Here we are again," he sighed. He tapped a pen on the clipboard's surface. "All right; line up."

"You gonna hafta cuff me!"

With an unenthused grunt, Hitchens gestured for the awaiting police boat. "Nobody's getting cuffed. Line up and I'll get your names."

At that moment, Bully decided to endear himself by making a last-ditch rebellion effort. He pushed his way to the front and dug out a pokeball from his pocket. "Yo, battle me, copper!"

"I'm not battling you." Then Hitchens reiterated for the third, strained time: "Line up."

Officer Hitchens was simply not cooperating with their threats; they fumed. But before their tempers could flare into something worse, their kahuna appeared.

"Hitch." Nanu at last made his way between them, hands relaxed in his pockets. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Nanu. I see you survived, huh, old timer?"

"Yeah, and I may as well save you some headache. When we get back to Ula'ula, you can sign the kids over to me."

Appropriately, Hitchens frowned and tightened his gaze. "To you. All of 'em."

"It'll just be simpler that way; trust me. Unless you _wanted_ to babysit."

This proved to be a compelling argument. Hitchens put a hand to his hip, pondered the conundrum, then gave up with a nonchalant throwing up of hands. "Whatever you say. Here." He shoved the clipboard into Nanu's chest. "Write down their names. Real names. Then they're all yours."

Bully scoffed. "He ain't know all our names."

With a sniff and a smirk, Nanu slipped his red eyes in Bully's direction and clicked his pen. "You'd be surprised, _Pace Ortiz_."

The boy went silent, then sucked his teeth, threw his head, and stepped back, wearing a scowl. "Dirty ol' _snoop_."

The rest of the grunts, entertained, took to parroting this newfound secret word: _Pace, yo Pace, hey Pace!_

* * *

As all this went on, Guzma landed his feet on the pier and saw Plumeria standing by.

Of course she'd be going with the grunts eventually, but for now, she looked content to look onward, seeing Nanu cut deals and the grunts make drama. For once, she didn't seem amused, but preoccupied, her arms cradling tight about her torso.

Guzma knew that stance and face well. He saw plenty of both before their relationship fell apart. They stood as omens.

His heartbeat went thready, but for the moment, Lusamine brought her children down the steps and forward to some employees, engaging them in some chatter irrelevant to his immediate interest, so he stole time to jut himself forward and meet her.

"Plume."

She blinked like his voice had just missed her, but the wind carried it back, so after a second, her head turned. A delicate stream of pink hair passed under her chin, and she fixed it behind her ear, a gesture that made his memory roll back like a tide.

He hadn't planned out what he meant to say at all, but he felt he ought to say something. He started with the obvious. "H-hey."

For a torturous, head-pounding second, she pierced her eyes into his and would not answer. Was she picking him apart? Drawing resentment up again? Preparing to rip him to shreds?

She dropped her gaze. "Hey."

Compressed air whistled through his nostrils. The coldness hurt, but he rambled on, popping his knuckles and fishing them through his pockets like he was a fidgeting teenager all over again. "Uh, so. I probably won't be seeing you for a while."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Plumeria fixed her eyes on the islands. It was then he noticed she had gum rolling about inside her cheeks, because she blew a quick bubble and sighed. The nerves were palpable. "You're not marrying her."

"Yeah. We're… Goin' separate."

"You aren't gonna be letting me take credit for that, are you?"

"It's complicated."

She hid her disappointment behind a shrug. "Eh, figures." Though she made an effort not to meet his eyes, she darted hers toward him in short, curious fits while maintaining a chilly stare out to sea. "You still gonna be here? Be a kahuna and―"

"No," Guzma blurted. He raced to put his thoughts together. "I― I mean, I'm not really sure." He regretted not having any more to tell her, at least not yet. He had things to settle first before he could decide on anything. He forced some enthusiasm to ask, "So… How 'bout you? What're you gonna do?"

Plumeria popped her gum and shrugged yet again. She looked out again at the grunts, her eyes filled with an undercurrent of affection. "Somebody's gotta watch these dummies."

Guzma narrowly avoided expressing dismay. Just as he had with the Aether children, he had labored under the idea that he could seek out inspiration for his own future by gaining insight into her hopes and dreams. She, he thought, would have something to say. Some desire to move on and mature.

But he corrected himself in his silence. She had always cared about Team Skull more than he ever did. He had reigned as the top-down boss, all hard knuckles and threats, but she was their Big Sis. She couldn't dream of untangling herself now.

So as much as he wanted to tell her to think bigger, he realized it was her decision, not his.

"...Okay." Guzma fidgeted with his watch. "Well, before ya leave, I better talk to―oh."

Plumeria broke her ambivalence to smile when she noticed what he had; Nanu had already boarded a boat and shut himself up inside. The grunts started to fill in, too, eager to join their grumpy overseer, and she took it as her cue. She turned away and readied to step toward her ride. "That's Uncle for you," she said wryly. "I'll tell him you said _hey_."

"Tell him―" Guzma latched onto her arm to stop her from leaving, though after receiving a nasty glare, he jerked to release her. He then hesitated before finding the courage to mumble, "Tell him thank you, too."

"Ugh. You're such a mushy dork," she scolded. For the first time in a long while, she teasingly shoved him at his chest. "Why don't you write him a love letter and keep me out of it?"

That succeeded in poking his old side awake; he stiffened with a challenging step forward, put on a spiteful, ogre-like expression, and sucked his teeth at her.

But seeing him like that just made her guffaw aloud. She almost left him like that, but just before she took off for good, she turned around one last time to look him over. He stood paralyzed by her unexplained examination, like he was afraid that speaking or moving would give away some weakness. A thought clicked in her head, though, after a short moment. She seemed to be in wonder.

"You really are different," she said.

Guzma clenched his fists. He thought this was a parting shot.

"I'm not saying it's _all_ bad, you know," she clucked at him. "See you around, G."

Guzma felt an impossible urge to chase after her, to say a million more things. Then the grunts gathered around her and Lusamine, far on the other side, called out to him, and the moment closed shut.

* * *

Faba, when the ship first arrived, had taken one look at the looming ship with Team Skull grunts hanging over the railing and sighed. "It appears I made the right call in not attending, at least."

The scientist pretended to be unconcerned and detached from the whole affair, but he had fretted the days before the ship left, fretted still as the ship departed and took its course, and fretted all the more when he knew it was to be arriving back at Aether. In preparing the serum to be delivered by air, he survived on barely any sleep and perhaps even less food; once the Pelipper took off with the completed product, Aster had to threaten to tie him down if he didn't immediately go to bed.

So he fixed his hands behind his back and squeezed them. He could not quite make out Madame's face from the crowd, and it flayed his nerves.

Aster, though, didn't notice his partner's anxiety and let out an unmanly squeal of excitement. "Ohmigosh! Little ones!"

"Aster, _please_ contain yourself."

"But they're adorable! Are they staying?"

"I hope you're not suggesting Aether adopts a ship-full of urchins. I'd sooner drown the whole lot."

"Don't _say_ that!" After a bit of fussing, Aster looked out at the crowd dreamily. "Oh, this just reminds me how much I want kids of my own."

(Faba muttered darkly, "Then I'm afraid you've chosen the wrong path in life.")

"...I heard that."

"Hmph." Faba brushed some invisible dust from his shoulder. "Anyhow, that's what the police are here for. They'll be removing the hooligans, thank goodness."

Because it took so long for the grunts to file down the stairs and to the boats, and because Lusamine, Guzma, and the children each became engaged in conversation elsewhere, the two scientists had to wait and twiddle their thumbs. They could see how the woman had drifted down, clinging to the Guzma's arm, and how now she stood with her children shockingly near her. It all seemed unnatural.

"Do you think…" Aster, gaining some sense, lowered his voice and leaned in the murmur, "...That it worked?"

Faba glanced about. No employees stood close enough to overhear them, so he felt comfortable lifting the whispering tone. "I can't think of a reason it would fail; the formula was simple enough. We'll find out soon in any case."

"I wonder if we'll be able to tell. If it'll be―noticeable."

"I told the boy not to expect miracles."

"And did you tell him how you made it?"

The Branch Chief looked at him, puzzled. "Why would I do that? He wouldn't understand any of it."

"But!" Aster brimmed with a smile. "It's sort of poetic, isn't it?"

"Not in the least. It was a standard vaccination development method."

"You used his blood," Aster pointed out.

"I―" Faba frowned at him. "That is _not_ an accurate summation of the process." If the brown-haired ditz tried to put it that way to Guzma, the boy might get the impression that he'd jammed his fiancee full of his blood. The scientific reality was more mundane: Faba had vials of Guzma's blood in storage, from when the boy had first arrived at Aether; he determined that the blood contained antibodies to fight off the toxin; these antibodies were successfully extracted and used to create the serum. Of course, any of these steps might have failed to occur or succeed depending on a whole host of factors. "It was luck. Luck on a maddening, astronomical scale."

"...Or fate?"

Faba scoffed and gave him a withering glare. "Don't get cute."

"Oh-h-h? I'm cute all of a sudden?"

The tablet in Faba's hand suddenly felt very much like a weapon, but fortunately for the constitution of Aster's skull, at that moment, the family had regathered and fast approached.

Lusamine had Lillie by the hand―or rather, Lillie had clasped onto hers, and she chose not to redirect her. A small etching of pain made its way to Lusamine's features, tightened the rims about her eyes and curvature of her eyebrows, but she forced some shows of pleasure. With Guzma and Gladion behind her, she could look ahead, see Faba and Aster awaiting them, and oblige a difficult, weak smile.

Aster, in his usual naive way, smiled back; Faba watched her with narrowed eyes.

"Branch Chief Faba," Lusamine said, voice drawn out and exhausted. She dropped Lillie's hand, slid over to him as if walking on air, then took his hands into hers in a solemn, loving way. So many thoughts fell on her at once, that she shut her eyes to give herself space to process all of them. "So much has been decided. Oh, I hardly know where to start."

Faba's nerves suddenly spiked. He cast his eyes on the children and poorly disguised his irritation. "Yes, I see… The young masters have returned."

"Yes, yes, isn't it nice?" She dropped his hands to fold her palms together in a serene show of approval.

(Faba gave no comment.)

"But more importantly, I suppose, we've indefinitely postponed our marriage." She still couldn't allow the word 'cancelled' loose from her lips, but this euphemism worked just as well.

Faba heard her, squinted, and gave a sideways glance over her shoulder and at Guzma, as though to get a read on _his_ feelings on the issue. Guzma, seeing his inquiring look, shrugged―which Faba tried in vain to interpret while Lusamine rattled on.

"Furthermore, I've decided to take a sabbatical… It's high time I allowed someone else to run Aether in my stead…"

Faba took immediate, keen interest in this declaration. "Is that right…?"

"Yes. Of course I've already picked my successor―"

Faba opened his mouth to interject.

"Gladion." She turned to her son and reached out to touch his shoulder. Despite a sliver of resistance, the boy allowed the temporary contact. "I'm going to speak with the directors of course, but I trust they'll approve it."

"That's―" If one watched close, one could see every stage of grief pass through Faba's expression in those few pained seconds. Finally, through clenched teeth, he wheezed an insincere, "... _Wonderful_."

While the rest of them did not buy his bluff, Lusamine expertly pretended not to notice it. She glanced down at her son. "You have many plans for the place, don't you?"

"I have a list," Gladion said curtly. He also said this while looking Faba in the face.

Before Faba could explode with indignation and start a full-fledged argument, Lusamine sighed, fanned her face, then shadowed her eyes with her hand, shielding herself from the now blistering rays of light coming from the midday sun. She turned and murmured for her daughter. "Lillie, dear… Let's head inside… I'm afraid I've been in the sun too long already…" Lusamine read the others' faces, and seeing they weren't ready to move, told them, "Don't dawdle too long, now. Most of your complexions can't take it."

The women went; the men stood alone.

Gladion and Faba spent a long time eyeing each other, simmering in the sun with a long-standing feud that the two other men could not fathom. They both stared and contemplated whether to fire first or wait for their foe to show their hand, but as they calculated their move, time stretched on and left their companions troubled.

"Uh…" Guzma finally couldn't take the silence anymore. "So―"

Faba cut him off and went straight for the young boy. Snidely, he said, "If I knew you were going to take advantage of a sick woman's momentary weakness, I would have made different plans."

Gladion frowned. "Yes; if you had come to the wedding, you could have taken advantage of her first. Is that what you mean?"

Aster's jaw fell, and he lifted a finger like he meant to say something.

But Faba barked, "Shut up, Aster," and continued to rave. "What makes you think Aether can be run on a youthful whim? This is complicated business, far more suited for an adult!"

"This decision wasn't a sudden impulse," Gladion assured him.

"No, sir," Faba seethed, "I imagine it was _not_."

"Okay, now―"

" _Aster_."

Gladion lifted a hand to request silence and attention. "Mr. Faba," he began, trying to sound diplomatic. "I've spent a lot of time considering what I'd do with you. Some options were less generous than others."

"Spare me," Faba replied. "I don't intend to stick around to witness this regime change."

"Ah. That's right. I heard about your plans―but as much I loathe to do it, I have to ask you to reconsider. After all, I'm willing to let you keep your position; I'm going to need your experience and knowledge of the science department if I'm to properly _gut it_."

"Y-you―!" That the boy had the nerve to start threatening him already rankled him; his teeth and fists clenched. "I'd rather hang myself!"

But before the two could launch into an undignified catfight, Guzma forcefully wedged himself in between them and faced Faba. He hulked over him and hissed, "Man, will you chill? I vouched for you!"

Faba sputtered, huffed, and put his hands to his hips. "What!?" In a show of disbelief and anger, he started waving his hands about to match his sarcastic braying: "And I suppose you think I ought to genuflect in appreciation for this mercy!? After hauling this _malcontent_ here for the purpose of making him my superior!?"

"Uh." Aster sidled in next to him, waving a hand in surrender. "For the record, I'm cool with it."

With a furious growl, Faba directed the clipboard in his hand over Aster's face, as if to erase his presence from the conversation. " _Anyhow_ , I fail to see why I owe anything to you."

Guzma, without warning, reached out a hand and planted it on Faba's shoulder. The pressure he applied was probably meant to be coaxing, but for a brief second, Faba thought he was going to faint. The young man pleaded with dire seriousness. "Mr. Faba―! I know this wasn't your plan, but you gotta stay."

Faba tried to maintain resolve. He kept a stern, unmoved expression.

"...Please? We gotta fix Aether, but if we're gonna do that, we need someone who's _really smart_ who knows how stuff works around here―!"

"There's no call for flattery," Faba interrupted, now uncomfortable. He then tried to brush Guzma's hand away, but his meek attempt didn't work. At last, the scientist relented, heaving a tired breath and declaring as loftily as he could, "O-of _course_ , as I can see my talent and expertise are desperately needed, I can remain here for now, until such a time when it's more convenient for me to..."

Forgetting himself, Guzma clubbed Faba over the shoulder with his fist, meaning it to be a friendly gesture, but more successfully causing Faba to startle and cringe. Guzma failed to notice this, however, and turned to Gladion, sounding vindicated. "See! I told you."

 _Told him what_!? Faba wished to interject and demand to know what sort of slanderous gossip Guzma had been spreading about him.

However, he lost his chance. Guzma, thinking the issue resolved, hurried past; Gladion shrugged a nonchalant _I-guess-that's-all_ shrug and followed him. This left the scientist with only two options: stew in the sun or report to his new master's side.

"Heavens," he muttered, gesturing fiercely at Aster and summoning him alongside him as he went, "strike me down."

When everyone reached the elevator―as Lusamine had not entered the platform yet, leaving it open for all six of them to board at once―she seemed tickled at seeing them all together. This amusement translated into an observation: she noted it was about tea time, and they all ought to have a little something. They shared uncertain glances, but they were too hungry (and too wise) to object.

* * *

It was strange, being home.

Stranger still, the thought of this place being "home."

All of them had their pieces to collect, segments of the island to claim as their own. Gladion could remember the long hours walking the halls of Aether Paradise, living in its gardens and walks, chasing Lillie down corridors, being scolded by staff when he wormed his way into the wrong rooms. This place had all the joy and horror of being young, tinted in white and scrubbed without mercy.

Then he found his old room.

Lillie, next door and poking around her own room, no doubt experienced a similar emotional churning as he did, but for him, this had been an untouched space for over three years. To him, this seemed to be ancient history, and he was thus shocked to find it not caked beneath mountains of dust, nor fossilized like a long-abandoned temple. It had been cleaned gingerly and regularly; the books and clothes he left scattered across the room in his abrupt leaving now sat in appropriate shelves and drawers, and the toys were sorted away.

 _Toys_. Even the word sounded foreign to him, after years of not having the resources or energy to engage in play.

Aside from the size of the bed, a person could have been fooled into thinking this room was meant for an adult, not a child. It had the same repressed, sterile feel as Mother's room, especially now that the child was no longer hear to lay waste to it. He wandered over to the desk, plucked an old workbook from the shelf, and thumbed through it. Old handwriting filling in answers to word problems. Since then, he had faced real problems, hadn't he? The sort not solved with simple equations. Thinking on it now, he had been woefully unprepared for the world.

But his mettle had been tested, and he got through it. He could not suppress a flutter of excitement at that thought.

"Ahem."

Gladion turned―and found Faba in his doorway.

"May I come in?"

Through a sliver of apprehension, Gladion answered, "Yes."

Faba stepped inside and held a formal stance just inside the doorway. "Young master―"

"That's 'Mr. President' now, isn't it?"

Faba's eye twitched. "As I _understand_ it, that won't take effect until the Board of Directors meets―but technicalities aside, I have something for you." The scientist rummaged around in his pronounced coat pocket and produced a sleek clamshell case. He offered it, and when Gladion took it with a cautious air, he explained, "I recovered these from the cryogenics lab."

Gladion, hearing that, felt his heart skip a beat. He gave Faba a coarse, disbelieving look, then fumbled to open the case to reveal its contents: two premier balls, white, shiny, freshly used.

"Seeing as you've raised the first BK prototype with such, er, success, I thought you might wish to try your hand at raising the other two." Faba interpreted Gladion's skeptical face and immediately resorted to making excuses. He raised his hands in exasperation. "Well, it isn't as if they were doing any good sitting in storage. And after all the blood, sweat, and tears that went into that project!"

Gladion silently placed the case on his desk… but still didn't like it. Faba only ever extended kindness to him for one of two reasons: to lull him into a false sense of security, or get into his good graces in return for a favor. Gladion stood firm, folded his arms, and made his guess. "What do you want?"

"'Want'?" Faba feigned offense by placing a hand over his heart. "Young master, what makes you think I want something?"

"I'm not interested in playing your games, Mr. Faba. Only an hour ago, you were against my presidency."

Faba just about shrieked in his own defense: "And so I've had an hour to think it over!" When he saw Gladion's unappreciative gaze, he swallowed and scaled back his yowling. He tugged on his beard nervously and made his best appearance of deep contemplation. "Yes… Y-you see, it occurs to me that, like it or not, we're going to have to learn to work in a professional context, aren't we? And so I, as the adult, really ought to be the first to extend my willingness to… Oh, how should I say it… Put the past behind us. For both our sakes."

"Hmm." Gladion scanned him harshly with his eyes, as if to spot any exposed weaknesses. "I suppose. Though it's mostly for your sake; if we can't get along, I can always just fire you."

"And what a loss for you that would be!" Faba barked, voice strangled with strain. His face purpled and his jaw clicked, but he successfully kept himself from screaming. He sputtered a moment, then corrected himself: "A loss for the _Foundation_ is what I mean, of course."

In spite of everything, Gladion knew Faba had a point. If Gladion meant to lead the foundation, he would have to be able to work with a variety of people, not only employees who were automatically loyal to him. He would have to start putting the value of their work over his own comfort.

As the boy contemplated his future, Faba hurried to bow out and dismiss himself. "Anyhow―please, should you need anything at all, do not hesitate to ask."

"...Mr. Faba."

Obviously, Faba hadn't expected a request to come so quickly; he startled. "Y-yes?"

Gladion sucked in a breath. "...I know…" This did not feel natural at all, but he compelled himself anyway. "...I know what you did for my mother. I don't know yet what difference the treatment will make―but it's relieved some of her suffering, and so I thank you for that."

Faba hurried to face the doorway, but he twisted one hand about the other's wrist, squeezing and tensing it behind his back. "Oh," he said, as if he had forgotten, "th-that? That was―a pittance, really, I threw it together with hardly a thought..."

(For a man who lived for recognition, he fell to pieces at the faintest praise.)

"Your father―" Faba hesitated. "He would… Be glad of it, at least."

The comment brought an awkward moment of quiet, which Gladion broke. "One more thing, Mr. Faba. I'm going to reach out to Ms. Wicke and invite her back into the fold."

"Wonderful. And?"

"Well… I was wondering about Mr. Aster? He's a new hire of my mother's, isn't he?"

Faba shifted nervously. "You mean…"

"I want your opinion on whether he'll be necessary anymore."

"Oh!" Faba began flailing and wringing his hands. "Oh, oh, goodness, Master Gladion―no, no, Professor Aster's fine where he is, a true asset to the department!"

Gladion was baffled by both Faba's answer and the zeal behind it. At the docks and at lunch, he had gotten the distinct impression Faba felt exasperated by this new employee. He arched an eyebrow. "So no complaints?"

"None, sir."

"Hmm." (Gladion mumbled to himself, "That's new.")

Just when their conversation dwindled, the adjoining bedroom door opened, and Lillie appeared moments later in Gladion's doorway. She had to sidle her way past Faba and skipped in bubbly fashion before her brother, her face and eyes radiant.

"Gladion! Isn't it…?" She struggled to find words for a second. "Seeing our rooms again… And we're both here… It's really hard to believe."

"Strange times," Gladion said. He didn't exhibit any of her enthusiasm.

"How's your room?" Lillie looked about the uninhabited space.

"It's in fine condition, but I won't be living here. They're working on clearing housing for me at the employee compound." Gladion then noticed that Lillie had a stuffed animal clutched in her arms―an Eevee. He remembered that she had a veritable army of plush animals that she must have left behind in her escape; it seemed now she had spent some time getting reacquainted with all of them. "How's your packing going?"

"Oh, I'm done."

Gladion's brow furrowed. "So quickly?"

"I looked through my room… I had thought I'd pack some of my old clothes, but I don't need any of it. And… Well, when I get there, I can always buy new clothes, can't I? And there'll be all sorts of new fashions there."

Faba tutted, surprising them both. "I don't suppose you'd like to think about all the impoverished little girls who could only dream of having a closet filled with beautiful dresses to choose from."

Lillie flushed.

"Don't mind him," Gladion said flatly. "I'm sure we can donate your clothes to charity or something, if you don't want them anymore."

"Oh, wait!" Lillie turned from embarrassed to distressed. She clutched at the stuffed Eevee's chest until its seams threatened to burst. "I didn't say I didn't―some of them have a lot of sentimental―oh, please don't go throwing my things away while I'm gone!"

Gladion tried to resist the urge to smirk; for all Lillie's endearing traits, she did have a streak of entitled materialism in her. "Calm down. I won't." He looked at the Eevee plush. "Are you taking that with you? You know most trainers don't run around with dolls."

"I'll do what I like," she puffed.

"...Mr. Faba? Did you need something else?"

Faba jerked to attention; the boy calling out his lingering surprised him, so he brushed off his coat and acted as if he meant to still be standing there. "Ah―no. But if you're done here, I'm going back downstairs, and you may wish to follow me."

Lillie asked, "Is that where Mr. Guzma and our mother―?"

"The last I saw of them was down in the training room. I believe that he is playing with his pets."

Faba needed to say no more.

* * *

The beasts had missed him. At least, Guzma _thought_ they had missed him. Their moods and thoughts proved as cryptic to him as ever; when he released a cluster of them and allowed them to roam freely, their attention indeed snapped to him. They waved their rubber arms, their tendrils, tentacles, and throbbing limbs; they leaped and growled and made their way for him. But it was impossible to tell how much of their excitement was due to seeing their trainer after too long, or seeing the bag of treats he had in his hand.

After several long seconds of being manhandled, pushed, clawed, and protested, Guzma grabbed a handful of beans and threw them onto the floor. The beasts squealed and pounced on them with predatory ferocity.

He sighed, but wasn't entirely serious when he declared, "Oh, I see how it is."

They warbled, then turned to growling and scrapping one another for a chance to eat. To keep them from breaking out into a bloody fight, he tossed a few more handfuls, and so the group whistled cheerily and spread across the training room floor.

Guzma sat on one of the metal benches lining the training space and watched.

Each carried on their own behavior, like nothing of significance had interrupted them. Xurkitree wobbled about, scooping its food with its fingers, stepping easily over the bent forms of other beasts; Buzzwole scuttled about and stabbed at its targets with its beak-like mouth; Pheromosa daintily crouched and gathered hers in her hands first, then preferred to eat in small bites like a proper lady; the two Kartana zipped over the floor in swoops and narrowly missed each other.

In his watching, and in his seeing their personalities at full display, he fidgeted with the crinkly paper bag and tried to think. In fact, he hadn't thought much about the beasts in some time; other matters of personal importance had overrun them since he first left to Mele'mele. He had not completely dismissed his doubts, in any case. He still read their movements as robotic somehow, automated, lacking in transcendence beyond bare instinct. Yet, he could neither help but still be enraptured by Lady's beauty, by Zap's awkwardness, by Big Guy's brash showmanship. He felt charmed by their traits, and simultaneously tricked.

Which lead to the question: _what to do with them_?

Something wet touched the back of his neck. The first speckle, he didn't notice; then another thread of moisture clung to his skin, and a soft, slippery membrane applied pressure to his scalp.

Guzma cursed aloud and lurched, narrowly avoided falling on his face. He jumped to his feet, dropping the bag as he did, and whirled around.

Inches from his face, the Nihilego suckled on air and dripped mucus from his pulsating mouth-nubs.

"Hey! I told you―!" He fumbled a few steps backward, caught his breath, and eased himself out of a heart attack. "Geez! D-don't sneak up on me like that!"

It trilled, unaffected by his scolding, and rubbed its two, fleshy front tentacles together in a gesture he had come to believe could mean anything from nerves, pleasure, hunger, or shame. The tentacles squished with mucus; he realized then that it had been drooling down his back, and in disgust, he tried to smear the viscous phlegm off his neck. At least it had the courtesy of covering him in the translucent, benign stuff; when frightened, it had the habit of exuding rancid, oily goo that stained clothing and burned the skin.

From a comfortable arm's length away, he examined it. As usual, it had been too shy to venture out and mix with the others to find food.

Swallowing a complex blend of trepidation and annoyance, he asked, "You hungry?"

It squeaked and wriggled its arms like an eager toddler. Its mouth became ever-stickier with slobber.

As horrifying as its appearance was, it could be sort of… endearing in a gummy, gooey, slimy sort of way. It didn't stop his heart from racing, or his head from tracing back to unpleasant memories, or his skin from crawling. But considering that when he first captured the creature, he could barely manage to look at it from afar without wanting to crawl behind a rock and pass out with fear, he would take any positive feelings he could.

Guzma reached down, scooped the scattered remains of the treats back into the bag, and stood straight with a bean between his fingers.

With more suckling noises, the Nihilego eyed it, hovered impatiently, then began to paw at his hand.

Then a voice from an open door startled it; it cowered and puffed up its flesh.

* * *

Lusamine could not step any closer.

It had taken only a word to break the lock imposed on Guzma's access to the beasts, but with so much to be done, she had been caught up discussing other matters with employees in the testing labs. She had to give assurances that no one would be rendered unemployed, as frantic rumors already took flight after the announcement of her stepping down. After finishing a last talk, she returned to where she left Guzma in a training room, opened the sliding door, and found an alarming sight.

Not only did the pack of hungry beasts carousing over the floor give her pause, as she had never allowed herself much direct contact with them, at least not without plenty of staff about, but new horrors froze her in her steps.

There it was. The source of many muddled symbols in her head; the thing that to her, meant beauty, and death, and dreams, and nothingness. The Nihilego puffed its bell, floating just before Guzma's face, and as she continued staring at it, she felt familiar pain piercing her arms, which only sharpened to unbearable intensity when she saw Guzma's hand wander close to it. She wanted to scream, but her lungs and throat locked up.

She could only manage to call his name, like she would a child about to touch a hot stove.

" _Guzma_."

Guzma dropped his hand. She felt the fear drop just as quickly, but he looked confused by her outburst of concern.

How could he not be thinking the same thing? They two, of all the people in the world, should know what that creature meant. _Teeth, venom, fear―_

"...Yeah?"

All of a sudden, she felt very foolish. _Stop acting like a frightened child_. "Oh, I― you surprised me, with―" Desperately, but still not willing to step out of the doorway, she lifted a hand and gestured for him to approach. She blanched. "Are you…? Sure you ought to be so close...? To that…?"

"Huh? Aw, no, look. It's fine. She's―she's not dangerous." He didn't sound fully convinced, because in fact he wasn't, but he put on a brave face for her sake. He ignored Lusamine's continued, thin breaths of worry and turned back for the Nihilego, bean in hand. "Look."

In a manner that at least appeared fearless, he let the beast clumsily grope his fingers with its brachial tentacle, snag the treat, and bring it to its babbling mouth. The food disappeared in silence into its jellied stomach.

"You just gotta not scare 'em. They sting when they're scared and confused, y'know? But she knows me, so we're, uh, cool."

A little too well, it seemed; as he spoke, it began to invade his personal space again, pawing at his empty hand in search of more sustenance, then gumming its mouth nubs on his knuckles. He recoiled, but not out of pain.

"She gets mouthy," he said, nervous and frustrated by the creature's misbehavior. When he saw Lusamine remain unpersuaded and far away, he further nattered, "It's okay, she can't even bite, her teeth are like, really tiny. It's like, it feels like wet sandpaper or something."

"...Guzma."

Guzma must have realized his words would never convince her, because he left them behind. Instead, he strode up to her, took her by the wrist when she tried to yield, and tugged her toward it. Ignoring her sharp, terrified intake of breath, he insisted, " _You don't gotta be scared_."

Lusamine had no time to object. In a split few seconds, they stood before the wiggling beast. While she stammered and tried to find words to protest, Guzma foisted a bean in her hand.

"Go on."

She stepped back in vain, clutching the treat toward herself, which only served to excite the beast more. It lifted its arms at her, puffing, swelling, drooling thick ropes of phlegm. Very much hungry.

Guzma got impatient and even pushed on her back to pin her in place. "Just hold it out."

"I can't."

"Yes you can," he said. He forced her hand forward by gripping her shaking wrist and pulling it up. "Open your fingers and she'll take it."

In abject terror, Lusamine strained backward, but Guzma stood behind her as a formidable wall; her shoulders and head pressed against his chest, until it seemed he had enveloped her. His fingers still clamped about the tender skin of her arm to hold her still, and so with the Nihilego floating before her, reaching and threatening to absorb her fist if it did not release what it wanted, she unfurled her fingers one by one.

She felt the stickiness of her sweat as her palm opened. She held her breath. Her brain screamed and anticipated the raking of thorny blades, but the tentacle swept over her harmlessly, soft and sticky as a dog's tongue. An unpleasant residue remained on her palm, but the bean had vanished.

In disbelief, she pressed her eyes upward to meet its face. It stuffed the bean in its mouth and whistled. The bell receded in size, almost deflating, and the drooling subsided, and to express its irrepressible joy, it released a titter and squeal, then twirled around, tentacles swaying like tassels. She found the more she looked upon it, the more it was robbed of its symbolism. This was no god, no spiritual vessel; it was a peculiar animal, imperfect and unconcerned with its own meaning, garbling its material wants.

Guzma grunted a laugh, which Lusamine could feel at her back; whether he laughed at her, or the beast's ecstasy, she didn't know, but in any case, he seemed pleased.

* * *

Lusamine asked Guzma to sit her down, and he did.

The thin metal bench proved to be as comfortable as she imagined, but she settled in, and as if to ease her discomfort by sharing in it, he planted himself down, too.

The beasts finished their food, so they milled across the hard rubber floor, scrabbling and showing off.

Everybody had their plans.

It had all happened so quickly. In one night, everything had seemed to turn upside down, and though none of the paths came as a surprise, it still shocked Lusamine how immediately it had all come upon them.

Gladion had his new role before him.

Lillie, encouraged by her training and inspired by a desire to become stronger, would be going to Kanto to start a new journey.

The two children spent all their free moments chattering busily about their plans, their dreams, their hopes. Lusamine had no choice but to find their enthusiasm contagious, although her own fate was simpler―she would remain at Aether Paradise to assist in its reordering.

Guzma…

When Lusamine turned a quiet head to read Guzma's face, she found him hardened in a way that almost frightened her; she kept looking at him expecting to see the same softness and stupidity from when she first met him. The boy who clung to walls and tripped over his words in her presence, and wouldn't dare to touch her.

She swallowed then cast her gaze again on the monsters, pretending that she hadn't been looking at him after all.

"These beasts… What pitiable fates have befallen them…" She folded her hands in her lap while her expression sank. "Thrown here from another world… Maybe they've adapted some to their new home… But they'll never truly belong here. And I suspect… They wouldn't belong in their world anymore either."

Guzma stayed silent. His eyes remained forward and narrowed.

"Where do they belong?" The thought exhausted her; she sighed and planted her forehead on Guzma's shoulder. "Not here… Not where they came from… Then where must they go?"

He knew what she meant, and he demonstrated this not through words, but by bringing a hand about her back, smoothing his fingers along the fabric of her dress, and stopping where the sleeve did, until his ample palm clasped her opposing arm. He held her for a moment and plucked at the delicate blue seam.

She thought she might sink into him. But the door opened and a familiar, nasal voice drifted in the air.

"-And here they are, as I said―oh, good lord, they're _everywhere_."

Because Faba had barged in with children in tow, the couple were forced not only to separate hastily, but Guzma had to chase down and wrangle his beasts, as the arrival of three additional visitors drove them into a manic state, as if three new, shiny toys had wandered into the vicinity. He maintained his mantra ("They're not dangerous; they're just dumb!") all while they knocked him from his feet and narrowly missed trampling him, but he was able to end the hubbub by returning them to their balls and staggering to his feet.

"We didn't interrupt any fun, did we?" Faba had the gall to ask.

"Not at all," Lusamine replied, voice silky smooth. She didn't sound like she had the energy to be offended by his attempted rudeness.

"Girlie, shouldn't you be packing?"

"I am," Lillie told Guzma. "I mean―I did."

"Oh." Guzma juggled several beast balls in his hand in an effort to keep them from falling to the floor, but as he contemplated matters, he began to attach them to a belt at his hip. "Geez… That was fast…"

Lusamine stole his comment to lodge her own complaint; mewling and over-dramatic, she placed a hand to her cheek. "My little girl has grown up too quickly. It really is terrible." She saw Gladion roll his eyes. "And my little boy, too, of course."

The new president put his hands behind his back and, in a desperate move to get his mother away from cooing about her babies, redirected the conversation. After seeing Guzma with his beasts, he asked, "Are you taking them with you?"

Guzma latched the last ball to his belt and straightened, brow furrowed. "'With me'?"

"I assumed you have plans outside of Aether."

"That's―" Guzma paused to read their collective looks of curiosity. "Uh, one option? I still kinda work here, don't I?"

"You realize I have some say in this," Gladion said. "If you're an employee here, you'll be working under me."

"Oh. Yeah, guess so. That's kinda crazy." Guzma only dwelled on this a few seconds before resorting to mockery. "How do you want me to address you, huh? Mister Prez? Prez Junior? Mini-Prez?"

Gladion caught one look of Guzma's wolfish grin and crossed his arms. "...You're fired."

"Alright, alright! Sorry."

"I'm not joking." Gladion kept his voice steady and unemotional. He plodded out his logic, giving Lusamine plenty of time to interrupt him, though she never did. "You can't be here and you can't hold your current position. Aether has to refocus on preservation and protection; your job covers neither. Plus, the locals seem to find the whole 'kahuna' business sacreligious, and we need them in our good graces again."

It was hard to argue with that. No―impossible. For a time, the aptness of Gladion's assessment left everyone silent: Lusamine avoiding Guzma's eyes, Lillie gripping the handles of her backpack and looking on in sympathy, Faba plucking at his beard in thought.

Guzma scratched his head but didn't argue. He mumbled his thought process aloud. "Okay. Okay, then… Guess it's back to Mele'mele then, huh."

Aghast at the man's lack of creativity, Gladion cut in hard. "There are other options, you know."

"He's right," Lillie said. "A strong trainer like you… You could do anything you want. You could travel, like me…"

" _Ah_." Lusamine, surprising them all, let out a sharp, gasping vocalization and lashed out a hand, seizing Guzma by the forearm and squeezing almost to the point of torture. As they all gawked at her, Guzma especially, she had to ease her hold, snap back into the posture of a proper lady, and struggle to control the shiver in her words. "I see now."

"Madame?" Faba cocked an eyebrow at her, and when no one else dared question her, he asked impatiently, "Do you have something you'd like to share?"

Lusamine hands searched her wrists, where the feeling of his fingertips still lingered. Images flickered: Nihilego lapping her palm, dancing, gulls flapping the wind while Lillie laughed―they strained her with sudden heartache, mocked her with their strange convergence.

"Lu?"

With the thoughts tearing through her insides, she squeezed the blue veins of her arm and said, "I see. You should go with her."

There was only one way to interpret what she meant, but the statement flew so over their every expectation they had, that each of them independently thought she had misspoken or they had misheard.

But she hardened her resolve and explained as if she heard their skeptical thoughts, "And why not? Lillie's never traveled before, and neither have you-isn't that right? What a time you would have together…"

Guzma, alarmed, lifted his hands. "Woah, uh, wait―"

Gladion seemed to share Guzma's apprehension, but before he could voice it, Lillie jumped in. She could have been offended at the offer, could have balked at the idea of being handed an attendant like she was a child in need of supervision.

Instead, she leaped and pushed past her mother, standing before him and shaking with renewed enthusiasm.

"You could!" She balled and tightened her fists at her backpack straps. "And! You could teach me everything you know about being a trainer!"

In spite of her eagerness, Guzma was more exasperated than flattered. He frowned, pulled a sour look at both of the women, and lamented, "I ain't looking to be some full-time babysitter."

"'Babysitter'!"

Lusamine calmly disregarded Lillie's indignant outburst and murmured for Guzma to hear, "I know it isn't what you planned… And perhaps you don't think you're suitable… But I happen to think you'd make a fine teacher. Besides, I would rest easier knowing you were with her."

"Mother." Gladion waited for their attention to fall on him before he spoke deliberately. "I don't mean to imply he's untrustworthy," he said, looking to Guzma before addressing her, "and I think I see how it could work―they would balance each other out a bit―but do you really want to trust _him_ with this?"

"Oh… But I do. Very much." Standing close beside him, she placed the tips of her fingers at his wrist. The touch went unnoticed by them, but he could feel their prickling against the wiry hairs atop his arm. Her eyes, dewy and luminous, lifted to meet his, and in a smashing spark of a second, it was as if a veil lifted (a thin veil, as thin and delicate as rice paper). She communicated something impossible in those eyes, at that moment; she leaned in close, concealing her action by stepping toward him, and clasped her small fingers about the width of his. She came close to smiling.

Guzma felt goosebumps flare up his arm.

Seeing the googly eyes between them, Faba just barely restrained himself from gagging. He threw his eyes up to ceiling and groaned. "Well, then!? No need to hold us in pointless suspense."

"I―" Guzma sank his gaze into her eyes, saw Lillie imploringly staring him down from the side, and shuffled his feet, feeling rather cornered. In time, he huffed and threw his shoulders, pretending not to cave into their demands by declaring, "If I do this, that makes me the boss o' her, right?"

"Absolutely not." Lusamine spoke gently and with a touch of good humor, then gave him an affectionate pat on the chest. "Her assistant, maybe. Remember she has her own job to do."

Lillie, in unusually poor sport, stuck out her tongue at him. " _Ha_."

"Now, now, let's not be unladylike…"

"If I ain't the boss, what's the point!"

The girl dropped her teasing to plead. "The point is to travel! See new things! And you'll be able to help me get stronger―won't you just say yes already!"

"Alright! Fine! Geez." He sighed and wrapped an arm about Lusamine's shoulder while the young girl skipped around them; he griped, strategically close to Lusamine's ear, "Already as bossy as her old lady."

A steely, but also secretly-amused glare later, the woman returned: "Young man… You'd better get going. There isn't much time; she's leaving today."

"Tch. You getting rid o' me quick, huh."

She didn't find that quite as funny.

* * *

The beasts were to go with him.

That's what she decided. Whether she did this as a way to make amends, or because she would not be able to stand the sight of them with their handler gone, she didn't say, but regardless, the decision did not weight lightly on her.

Guzma lined the blue balls into the transfer panel, and they lay neatly in rows, awaiting upload; after that, they would sit in the server and await future use. For a moment after shutting the panel, Guzma glanced about the small laboratory, its blinking screens, its monitors, its measuring equipment, and felt a conflicted sense of worry and relief. Relief―because the beasts would be spared the prodding and wires. But worry, too, because only then did he come to realize taking them meant no more research. He could be robbing the foundation of insight. They wouldn't know any more about the beasts' abilities, strengths, weaknesses, biology, functions; he would have to figure these things out on his own, and he felt all the more unprepared for that responsibility.

His hand hovered over the console. The rest of them had gone ahead and were about the reach the elevator.

 _Maybe…_

His fingers tapped on the console's frame.

 _Maybe they don't belong with me_.

He thought about empty eyes and faces. Their unnatural behavior. The way they moved and consumed, hardly touched by his words.

If he let himself, he could dismiss them as monsters.

But then he thought about Lady, and the opal eyes that stared back at him when he touched the smooth, pearly carapace of her cheek.

Like so many things, he chose. He chose to take a stab at faith and believe in something that he could not put into words.

He made the transfer.

* * *

The heat of the day hadn't softened at all, which left the staff sweltering in their white uniforms out on the dock. The only mercy came in the form of a steady breeze passing over the glistening sea, pulsing the waters with westward wind. The choppy waters swayed the shuttle tethered to the docking area, and far off, just at the rim of the sky, the boat's much larger counterpart, which had departed hours ago, began to disappear around the bend of Akala Island.

The sea sprawled empty and open in every direction.

"Mr. Guzma."

Guzma blinked.

Before him, Gladion stood with purpose, and Guzma could guess it. He had already seen the boy offering his parting words to his sister, and from where they both stood now, they could see Lusamine taking her turn with her daughter. The woman affixed her fingers at the girl's head, murmured meaningful things, and did her best to show strength. Long strokes fell along the back of Lillie's hair.

"I suppose I should wish you good luck and travels," Gladion went on. He already had his arms crossed at his chest, and he looked annoyed that Guzma continued to look over his head at the women. "But more importantly, you should know: you hurt her, and I will kill you."

He knew Gladion meant to be serious; the kid was allergic to levity, especially now that he was about to adopt an adult role. But getting a threat from the shrimpy kid was too much. Guzma couldn't help it. He snorted a laugh and violated hierarchical standards by knocking and grinding a knuckle into the new president's scalp. "Man, whatever, Prez Junior."

The boy yelped, wrenched himself out of reach, and glared nastily at him. Within seconds he was fixing his hair and ignoring Guzma's snickering.

Then, over the salty breeze, there came a sound of a twosome bickering.

Faba had earlier made it known to everyone that he had "things to do" and didn't wish to "waste any more time," and thus excused himself when the shuttle was said to have arrived and the travelers ready to go. Though none of them were surprised by his opposition to partaking in the last farewell, Guzma felt a sliver of regret in letting him slink off without another word.

Now, though, Faba appeared―in the midst of a heated argument with Aster. They hushed their fight as they approached, however, and they stopped before them, Aster stuffing his hands in his pockets and smiling sweetly, and Faba, pink-faced from exertion, drumming his fingers on his crossed forearms and putting on an expression of disgust.

"We came to say goodbye," Aster said to answer the questioning looks on Gladion and Guzma's faces. He waited a beat. Shifted his eyes. Then, when the silence became unbearable, he elbowed Faba, trying to be subtle about it.

The scientist, flustered, rattled to life, adjusted his glasses, and rambled hurriedly. "Yes! Well! I decided, after all, it's only appropriate that the branch chief be present for your departure."

Guzma was in such an unusually good mood that he dared to grin and jape, "Aw, you gonna miss me, Mr. Faba?"

"Ugh." Faba let out a hefty scoff and scowl, then looked him square in the eyes like he meant to evaporate him with his gaze. "Mark my words, _Guzma_ ," he seethed. " _You_ are the most exasperating creature I have ever been forced to endure, and I've _never_ been happier to see someone leave for good―!"

"I know," Guzma deflected. Before the scientist could either recognize or defend himself from the gesture, Guzma pulled him into a brief, bone-cracking embrace, accompanied with a painful thump on the shoulder-blade with his fist. "It's okay, Mr. Faba; I'll come back an' visit."

It took a moment of cringing and struggle for Faba to regain his standing; mercifully, the hug ended with all joints in place, and the hulking young man must have found closure, as he quickly turned away and started for the shuttle. Gladion, hiding a smirk, followed after.

And so, dusting himself off, Faba complained, depleted now of his bluster, "A handshake would have more than sufficed."

No one heard him but Aster, and Aster was unkind enough to laugh.

* * *

Lusamine thought…

Lusamine thought she would have no more words left. No more tears.

But when Lillie boarded the shuttle with her belongings, and Gladion said his last words of goodbye to his sister, and Guzma approached her, his face full of contemplation, she felt a resurgence. The sting returned to her eyes. She had a million things to say all at once.

In the bright afternoon, the color in him stood out: the brown shades in his unfurling black hair, the shock red of his jacket, the wheat hue of his skin, the blinding white of his sneakers and undershirt, the ashen blue at the rim of his gray eyes. She felt most at ease thinking of him like that in the moment, like a pallette, a creature of combined tones whom she did not have to face.

But he broke the spell.

"This is it, huh, Miss L."

Guzma hoisted a duffel bag that probably outweighed her over his shoulder.

"I told you…" He blinked in the sharpness of the direct sunlight. "That I'd do whatever you said. That I'd stay if you wanted."

"I remember," she said. Her voice was so thin that the breeze nearly broke it.

"So you're sure?"

Why did he feel the need to torture her like this? If she obeyed her impulses now, she would have flung herself at him in a rage. "Yes, of course I am. You should _go_."

She feared that he would call her out for her obvious reluctance, but her gently regarded her, thought for a moment, then shook his head with a sigh. He remembered something then, as shown by the lifting of his normally crumpled eyebrows. "Oh. So, hey. When I went through my stuff, you know, looking for what I wanted to bring―I found this thing, I'd kinda forgotten about it, actually, but…" He cut off his own train of thought. "Here, lemme just show you." Balancing the bag at his back with one hand, he used the other to fish through a few pockets (hitting a few empty ones as he did) until he at last recovered the object in question.

In his hand was a brilliant blue stone the size of his palm.

She knew what it was, but he needlessly explained, "It's a Dawn Stone."

Under the direct sunlight, its star-shaped refraction almost blinded her.

"It was a prize for a championship I won as a kid. I carried it around as a kinda lucky charm, but…" He flipped it over in his palm thoughtfully. "I don't really need it anymore."

In a gentle, promising gesture that lasted only a second, he took her hand and passed it to her palm. The stone rested its weight there, cool against her skin.

"I want you to hold onto it for me." He paused, then exhorted, "Don't lose it."

Before she could still her tongue, it leaped from her with shocking earnestness: "I won't."

Neither could decide the right course of action for a second. A handshake would be too formal; a kiss too intimate. He pulled her into a hug, but even that came across as clumsily familial, firm and fast, lacking the sensuality she had grown used to.

"Well…" He fumbled to take up her hands, clutching over the stone-covered palm and cream-colored backs of her hands. They radiated with warmth from absorbing the piercing sunlight, and in fact could already be seen tinting pink. It all became too vivid, and the words caught in his throat. Then he said, a little too seriously, "See you around."

"...That's an awfully funny thing to say in these circumstances."

"It's just―" He winced. "It's just what we say around here. Anyway, unless one of us drops dead or somethin', we'll run into each other again."

"How astute of you," she said. She covered her amusement by weaving her free fingers into his. "I see. Yes… Suffice to say, the world is small."

Guzma looked ready to say something else― something meaningful, maybe. But Lillie had been on the shuttle for some time and, holding the railing and bouncing with excitement, she cried out, " _Mr. Guzma! Hurry up!_ "

The boy didn't look back at her, instead rolling his eyes. "Like I said," he told her. "Bossy."

Lusamine, feeling him start to pull away, suddenly reverted to maternal fretting. "Now, don't fight."

Guzma groaned and tousled his hair, responding with the sarcasm of a son answering his mother's lecturing. " _Okay_."

"And take _care_ of each other… You may not think it, but the both of you… Need to be taken care of…"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll watch her. Kanto boys are scrawny; I can bash 'em if I have to."

That talk served more to spike her blood pressure than ease it, but she let it pass. "Stay in contact. Of course you can call anytime, but letters, too…"

"We'll send ya postcards," he assured her. His voice shifted to concern when she showed no sign of calming down. "It'll be fine. Don't stress about it. You just focus on getting better."

Lusamine's eyes flitted with surprise and unrestrained moisture. She hadn't expected the worry to be directed back at her.

"I mean it," he said. "Get better." To hurry himself, he didn't hesitate or ask permission, but put his hand to her face, brushed her hair aside, and planted a kiss on her forehead.

She felt the world dim. His lips were warm, but heartbreakingly brief. Rockets whistling up her throat; ash and sparks; a shower of light. Then it was over, and he began to hustle away.

"Guzma."

He paused to look over his shoulder at her.

At first, she couldn't think of what she meant to say. Or rather, which thing to say―she still had so many words swimming in his stomach, each a different flavor. Her tongue went sticky with anger and terror and worry. She gaped at him, saw his innocent affection, and thought it very foolish. She imagined (wrongly, although to her credit, not without good reason) that she had been the cruellest figure of his life. All that unthinking savagery, and still, he paddled back to her.

"I―" She clutched the Dawn Stone and pressed it against her ribcage until she thought it might crumble into dust. " _I don't understand you_."

"Uh―" Guzma's expression warped with embarrassment; he didn't know what was going through her head, so he took to awkwardly searching for a response. He offered a wave and nervous chuckle. "Eh-heh. Yeah. Hey, me neither."

That was the last thing he said to her before getting on the boat.

How stumbling. How inarticulate.

How… him.

* * *

The leaving was ever so mundane.

They got on the boat. There was waving, and waiting for the shuttle to vanish close to the horizon. With it all over, Lusamine found herself stuck on the dock, feet cemented on the edge before the drop into the sea. She looked down. It looked deep, impenetrable.

Gladion came up behind her when he decided she had moped long enough. "Their flight out of Alola won't be today, you know," Gladion told her, strongly implying that her grief was premature. "You could even see them off again if you wanted."

"No..." Lusamine folded her hands against her stomach, the Dawn Stone still round and hard against her flesh. "No, I think… This is the way it should be. This is all right."

"Hmph." Gladion frowned like he didn't believe her. He squinted out to sea, but the shuttle had gone too far to be anything but an impersonal white speck hurtling for Mele'mele. "Then we should go inside. We have work to do."

Lusamine watched the waves lick and slide.

"...Mother?"

"Ah…" She turned, a picture of serenity, and put on the first smile he had seen in a long time. "Yes, of course. Much work."

When Gladion turned for the interior elevator, she started to follow, but after a few steps, her eyes dragged back to the source of her distraction. Far away, the boat's wake drew a thin line of white surf across the sea, and she froze again as she watched it. Like a thread, it stretched and stretched the further it went, building pain and tension with every passing moment. It went taut, strained, gave her the sudden, unbearable sensation of being torn in two―and then broke.

Very abruptly, she could breathe.

Had Guzma felt it too?

With supernatural certainty, she decided that he had.

Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe

E ke onaona noho i ka lipo

One fond embrace,

A hoʻi aʻe au

Until we meet again

Farewell to thee, farewell to thee

The charming one who dwells in the shaded bowers

One fond embrace,

'Ere I depart

Until we meet again

 **THE END**

* * *

 **UP NEXT:**

 **-** _Epilogue (stay tuned within the next few days!)_

 _-Addendum I: The Evil That Men Do_

 _-Addendum II: No Man Is An Island_


	36. Epilogue: Postcards

**All stories must end.**

But when a story ends, lives go on. Winds blow in all directions; like dandelion seeds, where people were once were bound by one kernel, now, they scattered. And for each one, different fates had to be faced. Different challenges, and fears, and victories. Such would be stories in their own right―only not here.

There is honor, at times, in the stories not written:

I. Lusamine faced the most difficult and uncertain ending, but also the most necessary one. It would take time for her to find her way―to find how to fill her days, now that she had given up so much. To watch her son take over and disassemble so much of her dynasty hurt, like a series of amputations one after another, but within a few weeks, the pain dulled and she could start to see where the culling had made room for health. Life came back. Workers and volunteers flowed again, no long choked by crowds or media. There was focus, a sense of humility, a sense of… Wanting to do right.

Without her duties as president, and without Guzma to accompany her, she had to find new hobbies and interests. There were only so many hours one could spend sitting in the garden doing nothing. Interim President Gladion noticed her restlessness and asked her what she did before her presidency, and she answered, _I had two young children to take care of; what_ ** _wasn't_** _I doing?_

So he made his deduction and decided to offer her a chance to volunteer in the medical wing. Perhaps, he thought, she needed an outlet for her mothering instinct.

He half-expected her to turn up her nose at the opportunity to do grunt work, so he was pleasantly surprised when she accepted. Though it proved awkward for a time working among her former underlings who still slipped into calling her _Madame President_ , gradually, she learned a new routine. She came to relearn the preciousness of life and soften her heart, little by little, like stone worn down by dripping water. She had learned once that it took millions of years for canyons to be carved under the beating of harsh rivers, and there were days she woke up with the weight of that knowledge―of knowing that perhaps, it was no use trying to create such drastic change within a single lifespan. But the despair would pass, and she found, somewhere in herself, the strength to get up again.

In the evenings after her work was done, in the privacy of her bedroom, she'd gaze up at the glowing moon through her open window, letters in hand. Guzma had started his journey and kept his promise. Clumsy handwriting aside, the tone of his letters remained professional, subdued, and at times, curt. She thought she could read a strain of melancholy in some of them, but perhaps she was projecting. Lusamine also suspected that Lillie was assisting him; there were turns of phrase and subtle composition choices that she would normally think of as beyond his grasp. Yet that, too, could be Lusamine's self-serving assumptions―an excuse for why Guzma had yet to wax poetic for her (if Lillie had eyes on his letters, she reasoned, certainly he'd withhold anything too personal or amorous). In any case, she still read them carefully, folded them away, and when loneliness returned, she'd bring them out again. Over and over, until the ink wore away.

The moon stared back down at her. When it was positioned at just the right spot in the night sky, it made the Dawn Stone on her desk light up in a brilliant, ethereal seafoam blue. She wondered.

II. Gladion took to his new position well, though his decisions and leadership style caused an initial kerfuffle. Once the dust settled, Aether returned to normal, with some key elements extracted. The first thing to go was the battle stadium and spectacle; then came the cleaning of the underbelly, purging the live experimentation and worst excesses of the science department. Faba grumbled about certain projects being slashed―but wised up enough to comply.

The young master worked long hours, which for a boy his age meant plenty of exhaustion, but with Ms. Wicke back at the Foundation, he always had support in form of tea and comforting words. Lusamine, too, would on occasion deign to offer bits of advice when she passed through the halls like a ghost of the past.

No matter how many times she suggested it, though, he never wore wardrobe befitting a president.

True to his word, he kept his mother at arm's length most of the time and ventured near the home only rarely. This wasn't to say he isolated her entirely; if he had learned anything in training Silvally, it was that frequent contact, not harsh discipline, made for the best rehabilitation. On occasion, this meant a meal, or a meeting on important matters, or a walk along the outskirts of the facility. Gladion also came to take frequent trips to the islands, usually to visit the satellite bases and assess their wildlife initiatives, and often, if Lusamine's health and spirit were good, she would come along.

The first time she did that, Gladion hardly knew what to make of it, seeing her stand on real earth, surrounded by natural life neither transplanted nor collected. He saw her sweat in the sweltering heat. He watched her shake pebbles from her shoes, scratch bug bites, and flush with pink patches of sunburn. Outside of the artifice of Aether, she humanized, became an organic being again. She was uncomfortable during the trips, but determined, and when he pushed certain feelings aside, he could feel almost proud of her.

It would all take time, he knew.

But he had plenty.

III. Faba, who dutifully postponed his retirement to assist in the transition of power, had to face the realities of his actions under Lusamine, compelled as they were. Interim President certainly didn't let him avoid responsibility; wherever Gladion went in the foundation to undo past sins, he'd order Faba along to do the heavy lifting―of the intellectual sort mostly, though, sometimes, the literal sort, too. While Faba griped about his new work situation―being ordered around by a small child like he was their personal secretary―eventually, he resigned to his fate and found ways to tolerate it. Faba became once again a timid breed of sycophant, praising Gladion's leadership skills to his face while muttering other desires under his breath. Still, something about the current political upheaval brightened his outlook. The fact that power had changed hands… After all, Gladion might not want to be President forever.

In the meantime, Professor Aster remained at Aether, and when Ms. Wicke returned to serve as Assistant Branch Chief, the two got along famously. They gossiped and swapped recipes and cooed over staff baby pictures, and in general drove Faba entirely batty.

Aster and Faba still spent time together, too, of course. They convinced the Interim President to approve a joint trip to Lumiose for what Aster insisted on calling a vacation and Faba was quick to call an out-of-town conference. (The whole time they were there, Aster could not quite convince Faba to introduce him as anything other than a fellow colleague. Some things―still an uphill battle).

IV. After leaving the wedding, Nanu went directly home to his police station, kicked up his heels, and fell asleep with a purring Meowth on his chest. As far as anyone knows, he hasn't moved since.

V. Team Skull went on to be… well, itself, for the time being. A few changes began to take place: as the hierarchy loosened and group goals dissolved, many of the elder grunts wandered off, returning home if they could, going on their respective journeys if they couldn't. This left the youngest in squalor, but not for long. The court had made its order: they could stay in Po Town, so long as they didn't cause anymore trouble, and so long as they began to attend school.

Plumeria had to play big sister. She had to assure them this wasn't an execution, reasoned that they were bored most of the time anyway, and wake up early to corral them into the kitchen and out the door. It was hectic and nerve-wracking, but privately, she came to the conclusion that the boneheads could use some literacy and numerical skills. It wasn't the worse thing.

As for herself, she thanked the stars that she had dodged the age requirement for school. She had been slapped with probation instead, and the judge must have had a twisted sense of humor, because they put Nanu in charge of it.

It didn't matter too much. As the kahuna often did, he passed the responsibility off to his favorite errand boy, Molayne.

...Sly old devil.

VI. And as for Guzma and Lillie, their unwritten story began at the shores of Mele'mele, because both of them were wound into the fabric of that island, and both felt the need to delicately pry themselves away rather than rent violently off. For Lillie, this meant time with Professor Kukui, time packing her old and newer belongings, deciding what to keep and what to leave behind. It meant finding Hau and trying to find a way of explaining her plans without shattering his spirit. And of course it meant a hearty goodbye to Kahuna Hala, who had given her the first of her lessons which would serve her on her journey.

Because Guzma knew these people, too, he had to negotiate his presence carefully. He met with Master Hala, too, and had to endure the jealous and suspicious glares from the kahuna's grandson when travel plans were divulged. Guzma would try to surrender his Z-Ring, a pitiful gesture of contrition, but Hala wouldn't accept it. He said something gentle, and merciful, and wise, and all over again, Guzma felt shame at having not listened to him before.

In those last days on Mele'mele, Guzma also spent time at home, mostly to crash for the night, though he at least once stayed for supper. His parents weren't sure what to make of his failed attempt at marriage, but they expressed―in their own ways―cautious enthusiasm about his new lot in life.

And even though he knew all his feelings wouldn't be resolved in one meeting, he accepted an invitation to Kukui's place for dinner; Professor Burnet and Lillie attended, too, so it was an uneasy, but cheerful affair. When the sun set on their meal, resting its bronze face over the black sea, Kukui and Guzma broke off from the women and out onto the sand, walking along shore, dodging the laps of the tide. After sitting together on neighboring rocks, private things were spoken about―things not to be transcribed here―though one is free to speculate what two men who were once friends might say to each other, now that they're grown and ready to face childhood wounds.

By the end of their talk, Guzma thought, _I'll never really leave this place_. At one time, he would have thought of that as a curse. But now, he accepted it, the good and the bad alike. Mele'mele Island was in his blood. Running to Ula'ula hadn't changed that, and going to Kanto wouldn't, either.

It was difficult―letting go. But it was good, too.

The wind started to blow, and the sun cast long, mingling shadows over the bay, blending the two men's silhouettes with one another, and with trees and stones. The breeze had a salty aroma, but clean, rolling with the smells of distant grasses.

It was the wind of change.

* * *

 **A/N:** AND THAT'S IT! Thanks everyone for sticking with me! This is the end of Beasts and Beauties. However, this is not the end of my writing. There will be two more "chapters" posted that are related to the story but not part of the central plot. Think of them as special bonuses.

 _Addendum 1: The Evil That Men Do_

-In this chapter, we'll be encountering Guzma once more as a child. It's summer; the island trials are starting, he's facing a problem at school, and his neighbor Kukui is giving him a headache.

 _Addendum 2: No Man Is An Island_

-In this chapter, Looker makes a curious discovery in Alola that leads to some serious questions. Nanu reluctantly decides to help.

I also have tentative plans for a new story. Stay tuned for that as well. Again, you can follow or message me on khavvah dot tumblr dot com for updates.


	37. Addendum One: The Evil That Men Do

_WELCOME TO THE POST-GAME, I MEAN POST-STORY!_

 _Just a note: this chapter is not really part of the "story," but is extra content from the universe that I wrote and couldn't fit into the larger book. As such, don't expect the tone or content to flow logically from previous chapters. It won't. This is separate and should be read as such._

 _Also be warned that there is a returning character from Guzma's childhood who you will probably not be happy to see, you know who I'm talking about, please don't kill me. There are no content warnings for this chapter, but you will filter it through prior knowledge, so be warned anyway I guess?_

 **Addendum One: The Evil That Men Do**

 _ **The evil that men do lives after them / the good is oft' interred with their bones**_

* * *

Twelve years ago in early June, the weather on Mele'mele Island had already become uncomfortably warm, but it had not stopped Guzma from walking home and sweating in his favorite hoodie over his school uniform. The island was small enough that on any given day, he could choose a variety of paths home: he could cut through the bustling city, past the beach; he could wind his way to a malasada shop for a post-school snack; he could trek up through the northern cliff-sides and fields for solitude. This time, in no particular rush to get home, Guzma chose a more meandering path, one that had gotten familiar to him in the last year.

At the south end of Hau'oli City, a row of duplex style homes sat at the edge of the sea. Unlike the homes in Iki Town, these were of more modern design and were almost exclusively occupied by adults without families of their own, either living alone or with a roommate. They also tended to be rented by transplants to the island, as such people would move to Mele'mele and have no claim to the village homes owned by local residents. The duplexes were tall―three floors with windows and a small balcony at the top floor―and rather narrowly packed in together. Guzma knew the faces, if not the names, of every resident along that street, but he knew only the one very well.

Guzma approached the first duplex. Like the others, it didn't have much in the way of a yard or garden, but a small picket fence divided its property line from the road, and some potted flowers and plants lined the rim of the house's porch. On its exterior, the home had a soothing, plain look, correctly communicating the quietness and solitude of its two neighboring residents. But if one knew where and how to look, subtle concerning signs could be spotted. Curtains and windows kept shut. Unswept pavement. A few wooden chairs piled in the corner of the yard, perhaps at one point to be repaired, but now bleaching and warping from neglect.

The duplex apartments were conjoined with one set of stairs and one whitewashed porch, with a door on the left and on the right sides to signify the division of the eastern and western halves. Guzma glanced toward the right side of the duplex―the side of interest―and saw a familiar sight.

A Mightyena draped over the floor of the porch, its long body stretched out and slumbering in the shade. Its front paws were folded neatly, and its head nestled between them, giving a steep and visible rise to its back as it took in sleepy breaths. Advanced in age, this particular Mightyena had stiffer, more matted fur than its younger, silkier counterparts; the lustrous mane that began at its head and wound down its back had likewise changed from a smooth ebony to a more matte gray color. Guzma knew that Mightyena tended to be wild, feisty pokemon, but this one had calmed significantly in its later years, now spending most of its days lazing on its owner's porch and watching the island-folk walk by.

When he saw the pokemon, he felt brave enough to reach out, push open the gate, and venture inside. He dropped his backpack from his shoulders and left it at the gate on his way in.

"Hey, Saki," he called.

The Mightyena twitched, yawned, and peeled a single eye open. Upon seeing him, its ears perked.

"Your owner home?"

Rather than answer, it sniffed the air in his direction and chuffed.

Guzma wasn't dissuaded. He plodded his way up the steps, knocked on the right-side door, and waited. When no one came, he turned to face the drowsing animal, who still tracked him with its eyes. He stooped down and put a hand on its head. The petting pleased it. It flopped a saggy ear at him and slipped out its tongue, lapping his wrist. A few scratches in, it groaned and rolled its entire body onto its back. Guzma snorted a laugh and indulged its request for a belly rub. The hairs were short and bristly on its stomach, but if he scratched the right place, he could make its back leg kick and throat whistle with a happy howl. Its tongue lolled out.

"Ha-ha! Tha'ssa a good boy, Saki."

Momentarily distracted, Guzma failed to hear the far door open, so he was caught by surprise when a sharp, unfriendly voice snapped at him.

"What do you think you're doing!?"

The Mightyena grunted at hearing the scolding tone; Guzma himself leaped to his feet and, without even looking, skittered down the steps. It was only when he turned around, heart pounding out of his chest, that he found the landlord glowering at him. The elderly woman, with tawny, wrinkled skin and beady, hateful eyes, probably posed no real threat, but she never failed to frighten him in the few times they'd interacted.

An Absol slipped out from behind her. Like her, it had a pair of cruel, penetrating eyes that seemed to never let up; Guzma felt a shiver move up his spine when it examined him.

The landlord's voice sliced into him. "What sort of child are you? Walking onto other people's property without their permission!"

Guzma frowned indignantly but couldn't keep his voice from shaking. "H-he said I can…"

"He's not here," she barked. "And he doesn't own the place; I do!"

The more she yelled, the more he found himself walking backwards and slinking toward the gate. He trembled as he picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulders. Guzma put a hand on the gate to leave, but proved so shaken that he fumbled with the latch a few times.

"Some no-good punk has been coming around at night and smashing my flowers. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"What?" Guzma pulled the straps of his backpack tighter against his shoulders. "Miss, I don't even―"

"And if I ever catch you, you're dead meat!"

At this point, Guzma began to realize that arguing with her would do no good. As she yelled, anger spilled into his chest, and a wrathful heat clenched his throat. In that moment, he would have given anything for the courage to say exactly what he felt. He wanted to march over to her stupid plants and _show_ what he thought of her, this caterwauling, bitter witch.

But before he could do anything, someone at a distance spoke.

"Guzma."

Guzma heard the voice and whipped his head around.

"Is everything okay?"

And Guzma saw him―the other resident of the duplex, and the owner of the Mightyena. "Uncle."

* * *

To Guzma's right, on the other side of the fence, Daturo had come around from the back of the house. The man rested his hands on the picket planks and looked between Guzma and the woman, showing his concern by wrinkling his brow. The white t-shirt he wore had smears of oil, sweat and grease, as did his face and hands, but before Guzma could try and deduce what the cop must have been doing, the woman piped up angrily.

"Oh, there's the bum. Why aren't you out on patrol? Did they finally fire you?"

"Ah..." Daturo nervously chuckled, smiled, and employed some false charm. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Makani… I'm working the night shift this week, remember? Say, it's nice weather today, isn't it?"

The old woman scrunched up her eyes, digging a glare into him. "Don't try and sweet-talk me. Your rent's late."

Smoothly, he spoke while wiping his hands down with a handkerchief. "How's your water heater? Giving you any more trouble?"

She breathed in―held her breath―then muttered darkly to herself, not answering. She dropped the issue. "If you're a cop, then you should keep this delinquent off my property."

"Will do, Mrs. Makani."

Grumbling, she turned for her door, yanking it open to retreat inside. Her Absol followed after her.

"Have a nice evening!"

The door slammed shut.

Daturo's voice plummeted and he sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck. "...Aye. Yeesh."

"I'm sorry," Guzma blurted.

Daturo blinked at him. "Huh?"

"I didn't―mean―"

"Ah, don't apologize," Daturo interrupted. "She's a crazy bitch. Just ignore her."

(From any other adult, the language would have shocked Guzma; from Daturo, though, he was used to it).

With another gruff sigh, the cop bent backward and pressed a hand to straighten his spine. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Guzma didn't know how to answer. He started unconsciously digging his shoe into a spot of dirt.

Daturo, having become an expert in reading him, cocked his head. "Something wrong?"

"No," Guzma said, too quickly. "I… I dunno."

Without being able to discern what Guzma wanted, Daturo simply relented. He turned with a shake of his head. "Well, I'm just working on my car around back. You can follow me, if you want."

* * *

Daturo had his police cruiser parked on the maintenance road winding behind the row of duplexes. The car's hood was propped open; tools lay scattered on the pavement; bottles and empty containers of undecipherable purpose lined the curb. By the time Guzma reached it, the cop, who he could see now was entirely in civilian clothing, had already returned to his work.

Guzma ended up standing there awkwardly for a while, wriggling under the weight of his backpack and watching Daturo tinker away. Finally, the cop finished some crucial step enough to pause and think of what to say.

"So, it's been awhile," Daturo observed.

It was true. It was also not an accident. Guzma just shrugged. "Yeah, I guess..."

"What have you been up to?"

"Nothing." Guzma hastily moved the subject away from himself. "What are you doing?"

Daturo, without shifting his focus from the current task, answered, "Nothing complicated. Checking its fluids. About to do an oil change."

Those words meant nothing to Guzma. He craned his neck slightly to see if he could make any sense of it by sight, but Daturo's body was enough in the way, and the mess of pipes and metal shapes had no recognizable pattern. "You know how to do all that?"

"Sure I do." Daturo at last turned and spotted Guzma's skeptical look. "I guess you island kids never learn much about cars," Daturo surmised―correctly. "Back in Jubilife, our dads taught us the basics."

Guzma held onto and marveled at that thought. His vision whirled with the images of traffic jams and highways, like he only ever saw on TV. "Did you all have one?"

Daturo chuckled. "Oh, we all _wanted_ one. It was a big deal when you were a teenager. Especially for guys. We all wanted the chance to sneak out and slip our girlfriends into the back seat for some hanky panky, you know?"

Horrified, but not entirely surprised by the comment, Guzma averted his eyes and flushed.

Thankfully, Daturo didn't notice. He was too busy fiddling with something.

This was one of Daturo's most prominent flaws in character: when alone with him and not in the presence of prying eyes and ears, he did not restrain himself. He spoke crassly. He swore, he told lewd stories, he discussed sensitive topics, he overshared personal details, he asked invasive and intimate questions. If anything he said made Guzma uncomfortable, he'd laugh and tease him: _Aww, what are you getting all shy for?_

It was a flaw too easily misinterpreted by a child; Guzma mistook this lack of self-censorship as a sign of honesty and transparency. He even thought it was a show of respect, because Daturo spoke to him like he was another adult.

(In retrospect, though, Guzma would come to understand it as evidence of deeper flaws: a lack of self-control; an inability to maintain personal boundaries; a recklessness; a dangerous disregard for the uniqueness of childhood. In Daturo's world, all lines blurred together.)

"Hey, Goose."

Guzma, startled, brought his eyes up to see Daturo looking directly at him.

"You came here from school?"

Instinctively, Guzma glanced down and pulled at the telling backpack straps. "Uh, yeah."

"I thought you were out for the summer?"

"Nah. We got just a few days left."

"Huh. I swear when I was a kid, we were always out by June." After scratching his lower back and belting out a hoarse cough, he asked, "You got plans for the summer?"

"...Not really."

"Aren't you old enough to start that island challenge thing?"

Guzma was used to explaining local traditions to the cop, so he explained patiently, "Most kids do that in _sixth_ grade."

"Oh. Really? That's funny. Hala told me he thinks you're ready."

Shocked that Hala would volunteer such information freely, Guzma groused, "All he ever tells me is what I'm doing wrong."

"He's a strict guy," Daturo said. Guzma could tell that he _wanted_ to say something more profoundly unkind. Another habit of his: bad-mouthing other adults. But Kahuna Hala was so sinless that it proved difficult for him to cast stones; Hala was about the only man on the island who treated the cop with any respect or kindness, so even Daturo didn't have the heart to slander him. With that in mind, Daturo amended reluctantly, "I'm sure he just wants you to try your hardest." He paused again. Then, with an expectant, prodding upturn to his voice, he said, "So. If you're not on your challenge trip, I guess you'll be in the neighborhood all summer."

Guzma knew this voice, and he knew what it meant. But Guzma was a little older now, and a little wiser, and he had started to learn the dance―how to sidestep, how to dodge, how to slip away. That wasn't to say it always worked. Daturo was bigger than he was. And the man was sly when he needed to be: tricky, shrewd, well-versed in the art of deceit. Guzma carefully calculated his answer. "Maybe."

Daturo frowned. The slightest possibility emboldened him to start saying, "If you have nothing else to do, you can always hang around here."

"I might be busy."

Veiling his disappointment, Daturo said, "Okay. Well…"

Guzma turned himself suddenly around and crossed the access road, settling himself at the shoreline. He could hear only Daturo's surprised stuttering behind him as he peered over the edge, seeing a few feet below where the waves beat against the rocky soil. The weight of his backpack suddenly felt like a mountain; he stooped, crouching down and fidgeting with the fabric at his knees. A thought occurred to him. "Have you ever…" He stopped himself, overcome with nerves. He picked up a rock from the ground and chucked it into the water, and half-hoped that Daturo hadn't heard him.

"Have I ever what?"

...No luck. Guzma didn't face him when he asked, "Have you ever killed anybody?"

"What!?" Daturo was in so much shock, that he dropped his tool into the recesses of the engine; he cursed and fumbled for it. Once he recovered, he paced over, eventually placing himself besides the boy. His voice quavered. "Geez. What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"You're a cop."

"Heh, sure―but that doesn't mean I run around shooting people."

"I mean," Guzma said, frustrated by his flippancy, "you ever _had_ to kill anybody?"

As Daturo contemplated how to answer, he took a long, hard look out into the ocean. He fished out another menthol drop from his pants pocket, shook his head, and mulled, "Life in other regions… It's not really like it is on TV. Things are pretty safe… People hardly ever get killed. I don't think I know any cop who's had to kill anyone; definitely no beat cop."

"Have you, though?"

"No, Guzma. I haven't." Daturo sighed. The drop clacked against his teeth. "Now, are you gonna tell me what this is about?"

"I just…" Guzma lost courage and stared down at his shoes. "Have you ever wanted to?"

Rather than answer that directly―Guzma suspected the answer, anyway―Daturo said, "Wanting to do something and actually _doing it_ are very different things."

That was the kind of wisdom Guzma expected from Hala, not Daturo, a man who almost exclusively did as he impulsively desired.

"What's on your mind?"

How could he possibly tell him that? Guzma tried for a moment to even accumulate all his swirling thoughts into one place in his brain: his anger, disgust, resentment, terror, guilt, shame. If he let it, all of his putrid thoughts would spill out at once, right into the sea.

And for Daturo to so obviously pretend―like he didn't know he was a part of it. The man was either dodgy or more daft than Guzma first supposed.

"Hey." Guzma knew that tone of voice well. The whispering, begging, crawling voice, which crooked a finger and dug a hook into his skin, pulling, digging in. That voice had brought Guzma places, not all of them good. Suddenly, a hand reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "We promised, didn't we? Not to keep secrets from each other."

 _They had_. They had promised. And he didn't know how to wriggle free this time. He had come here-why? For all the pain, Daturo was the only adult he could be honest with.

"Look… Goose…"

(His hand hadn't moved).

"You know―"

Then, suddenly, far off and coming ever closer, the excitable yapping of a Rockruff interrupted him. Daturo blinked, shaken from his moment of focus, and turned; Guzma glanced over his shoulder and saw what the cop did. The noise boomed from between the duplexes until the small, panting critter scampered out into the driveway. Upon seeing Guzma, it released a jubilant set of howls.

Guzma knew what that meant.

" _Guzma-a-a-a_!"

The voice cried out to the heavens, louder than any voice had any right to be. And from the front of the duplex came the running, lanky-limbed form that was, infamously, Kukui.

* * *

Kukui was a schoolmate and a persistent problem.

He had a closely-shaved head of brown hair which he nearly always kept under a battered baseball cap (his father had given up on letting him have longer hair, as it inevitably became a crow's nest of debris and tangles), and stood a full inch shorter than Guzma, despite being a year ahead of him. He had a wiry, uncoordinated body that was painted with the scrapes that come from climbing trees, cartwheeling into walls, and being generally spastic. His muscles were unpronounced but considerably powerful for his age; he could take down Guzma―and any kid up to twice his own size―with ease.

Kukui also happened to be the single most annoying kid Guzma knew.

It was difficult to sum up his problems with him―the list could go on all day if he let it―but here are some of the most crucial things to understand:

Kukui was _loud_. As if his lungs had outgrown his tiny body, and so he shouted absolutely everything, regardless of how close he stood to you―a booming, ringing voice and an even more grating, screeching cackle when he laughed. He made Guzma's teeth rattle.

And not only was he a loudmouth? But a _big_ -mouth, too, not afraid to ask the stupidest questions or say the stupidest things. Kukui was the loudest, most persistently idiotic spaz in the whole sixth grade class, maybe even the whole school.

Guzma might have been able to endure all this if Kukui ignored him as the other children did, but apparently Kukui had made it his personal mission to annoy Guzma to death. He didn't listen when Guzma told him in so many ways to leave him alone―as if the part of his brain that processed rejection hadn't kicked in yet. Guzma could tell Kukui to his face that he hated him and would push him off a cliff if he could, and Kukui would giggle-snort and ask, "DO YOU WANNA DARE ME TO BACKFLIP OFF THIS ROCK?!"

Kukui was also his neighbor on Mele'mele, which meant he couldn't escape him outside of school, either. He was always following him home, banging on his front door, or chucking pebbles at his bedroom window.

He was, in short, an obligatory best friend: not asked for, not wanted, staunchly resisted, and yet there at every turn.

So in this moment, Guzma felt simultaneously vexed and relieved at seeing him.

The other boy, also in his school uniform, reached the two of them and bent over, puffing and gripping his knees to recover his breath. His backpack was jostled, almost falling from his shoulders for being bounced around so badly. Rockruff zipped back around toward its master, who grinned at it and said, "Good job, buddy! You found him straight away, huh?"

Rockruff wagged and yapped.

Saki then appeared from the front of the duplex, too, sluggishly dragging itself out after the pup, which soon ran in buzzing circles around it, yipping and nipping in a pleading bid for play. Saki just sat and grumbled at it, occasionally scolding it with a snap of teeth and growl.

Kukui, in the most dramatic way possible, waved his arms out in a broad circle. "I've been looking _ev-er-y-where_ for you, cuz! I got something to show you!" He finally noticed Daturo's presence and grinned. He threw an arm over his head to stretch it, and hopped with vibrant, irrepressible energy. "Heya, Uncle D!"

"Hey, Kooks."

Without missing a beat, and still wearing an amiable smile, Kukui replied, "It's Kukui."

"Uh… Right." Daturo hesitated. "Ku… Ku- _ku-_ i, sure."

Every time Daturo ever said Kukui's name, he seemed to pronounce it slightly differently, putting emphasis on the wrong syllable or slurring different vowel sounds. Kukui was happy to relentlessly tease the man for it, and Guzma had thought up until recently that the whole thing was a mutual joke, but he had lately come to the conclusion that more than anything else, Daturo was annoyed by it.

Kukui ran over to Guzma and narrowly missed knocking the other boy into the water when he grabbed him by the arm. "C'mon, let's go!"

Without answering, Guzma irritably pulled himself away. Not that it mattered; Kukui redirected his energy by running a ways up the road and calling after him to follow. His Rockruff similarly hopped in place, barking and beckoning.

" _Hurry up, Slowpoke!_ "

Daturo watched all this and sensed defeat in the face of competition. "Well," he said, "he seems pretty insistent; you better go with your friend."

"He's not my friend."

Amused, Daturo replied, "I think he hasn't gotten that memo, bud. Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."

With an air of reluctance, Guzma turned and started up the hill.

"Oh―Goose. Wait."

Guzma turned back to find Daturo facing the other way. The cop stooped down, picked up a tin can rattling with tools and loose screws, and after plucking through its contents, drew out an item. He then came back around, approaching Guzma.

"I got something for you. Here." Within a few seconds, a small, black pocket knife revealed itself in the cop's palm. Daturo looked a little mutually ashamed when he said, "I got it back from your teacher a few weeks back."

Without any expression of gratitude, Guzma reached for it.

But Daturo hesitated for a second, closing his fingers around it to prevent a quick snatch. "Just be careful with it," he exhorted. "Don't… bring it to school anymore, okay? I don't need people finding out I give kids knives to play with."

"Okay." Guzma had to suppress his impatience, and it paid off: Daturo opened his fingers and allowed the boy to take it. With knife in hand, Guzma hurried to shove it into his jacket pocket and run off toward the main road.

He didn't move quickly enough to keep Kukui from taunting, "C'mon! Geez, ya got longer legs than me, and you're still slo-o-w!"

* * *

Kukui didn't bother telling him what he had planned, and instead led him on a typical, roundabout path along a dirt road leading out of the city. Guzma was used to the kid taking him on meandering walks that kept him guessing; you could never tell what Kukui was really thinking. The Rockruff that followed at their heels certainly didn't mind the free-wheeling path, as it yapped, frolicked, and nipped the air while panting profusely. Guzma had to more than once kick it aside to avoid being tripped by it, but thankfully, Kukui possessed sense enough to not allow the pup to overstay its welcome, and after a few minutes chose to withdraw it.

So the two of them were alone with Kukui's nonstop mouth.

Guzma had tuned out Kukui's incessant chatter for the last minute, but now that he looked up and realized they were taking the long route home, he questioned, "So, what is it?"

"Huh?"

"The thing you wanted to show me." A thought occurred to him. "Why didn't you find me at recess and show me then?"

"I couldn't, brah! I wasn't there." Kukui fidgeted with his cap and confessed, with the appropriate modicum of shame, "Dad found out I busted another desk when I was practicin' my Body Slam today―yeah, so, I was in his office gettin' dirty lickins."

"...Oh." Guzma went uncomfortably quiet.

Kukui noticed the weightiness of Guzma's response and, worried that he'd caused undue alarm, thumped him in the arm. He joked and cackled, "Woo, you shoulda heard me, cuz! I was hollerin' for Tapu Koko to save me!"

The levity _sort of_ worked, in that Guzma's mild grimace faded, but he didn't smile.

"Anyway, I ain't got the something on me. It's at my house."

Guzma watched Kukui take to skipping down the dirt road. When Guzma thought the other boy wasn't paying attention, he slipped the knife from his pocket to admire it. It glinted black and burned his fingers with the confidence it afforded.

"What's that?"

Guzma jumped out of his skin and shoved the knife away, but it was too late. Kukui stood next to him, eyeing his pocket. Guzma tried lying. "Nothing."

"Eh? It didn't look like 'nothing,'" Kukui said crossly.

Guzma shuffled his feet, sighed, and produced the knife from his pocket. "Okay… Just don't tell nobody."

"WOW, LOOK AT IT! IT'S HUGE!" (It really wasn't.) "Can I hold it?"

"...I guess." He had a feeling that Kukui wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

The other boy took up the knife, opened it, and marveled some more. He took a few large steps backward, settling himself in a large open space, and began thrusting the blade in the air, spinning around, yelping hysterically unrealistic karate sounds. He paused to grin in Guzma's direction. "Where'd you get it?"

It was supposed to be a secret, but his answer slipped out. "Uncle Daturo."

"Ugh-h-h-h. Lucky-y." (Guzma revelled, for a moment, in Kukui's transparent jealousy). "I asked my dad for one, and he said I would just hurt myself." Kukui gave him a look, goading Guzma to agree that this was absolutely _ridiculous_ and _unreasonable_ , even though they both knew his father was right.

So Guzma played along. "Bogus."

"I know!" Kukui tried throwing the knife at a tree a few times, but mostly missed or struck its trunk with the handle rather than the blade, so he eventually relented, picked it up from the ground and handed it back to Guzma. "Here."

Guzma pocketed it and they kept going, but it wasn't long before Kukui started to fidget again. He hopped, skipped ahead, waited for Guzma to catch up, then snorted aloud with impatience. He contained his restlessness only long enough to drum his shoes on the dirt for a little while before giving up on his friend's pace. He charged Guzma until he came within arm's reach.

"Ugh! C'mon, let's go!"

And there was his last bone to pick with this aggravating, infuriating kid: Kukui liked to hold hands.

Even though _everybody_ had figured out by second grade that holding hands with girls was weird, and holding hands with boys was even _weirder._

Admittedly, it had a normal origin: it had gone on since Guzma started kindergarten. They were neighbors, and so naturally they walked to and from school together every day. Little kids like that, walking on a winding dirt road by themselves―of course they clung to each for security.

But Kukui, for whatever reason, never let up. So it was that whenever they walked anywhere together, inevitably, Kukui would grab his hand and tug him along at a brisk speed. The grip he had on him was always such that, even if Guzma tried to squirm his way out of it, Kukui kept it in an ironclad lock and refused to let go.

Guzma tried, once, to ask Kukui about it, but his questioning skills had never been very good, so he ended up asking Kukui if he was a "weirdo" and Kukui didn't understand the question, and that was that. But after thinking on it and studying Kukui's behavior, Guzma had since come to the conclusion that Kukui was just kind of dumb. (Not, you know, a "weirdo.")

About all Guzma had ever decided to do about it was grit his teeth and put up with it, praying no one would see.

For now, he had to pick up his pace to prevent Kukui from pulling his arm from his socket. This proved easier than avoiding being seen; after climbing one grassy hill, they ended up cutting along the street on their way to Route 2. People bustled outside the shops and on their way to their respective homes.

Then, just ahead, they came to pass a group.

Girls. A cluster of them, outside the malasada shop. Usually Guzma could ignore them, but Kukui was the sort of crazy kid who had no fear, who didn't worry about talking with girls or even befriending them, all while his peers still fidgeted about cooties.

The nutcase waved and hollered: "Heya, ladies!"

(Guzma, realizing now that Kukui had gone and called attention to them, desperately maneuvered himself behind Kukui and tried to hide his face. Prying his hand out of Kukui's at this point was a lost cause, but he gave a panicked tug, anyhow.)

Too late. He heard the group of girls burst into giggles and call: "He-e-ey, Kukui! He-ey Guzma!"

Guzma pulled his hoodie over his face and steamed. For a passing moment, he wanted to sock Kukui in the back of the head.

* * *

"Hey, Guz, whaddaya think about Burnet?"

The question came once they hit the dusty road again and were surrounded on all sides with trees and silence. As Kukui had found things he wished to kick and throw, he at last released his friend from bondage, but evidently, his thoughts had not wandered from the schoolgirls in their skirts and ribbon-laced hair.

 _Uh-oh_.

Had Burnet even been there? Kukui must have seen her, despite Guzma's lack of attention. In any case, Guzma didn't hide his feelings. "She's a dork."

"Yeah," Kukui said, tilting his head to the side dreamily. "She's awful cute, though!"

Guzma pulled a disgusted face, alarmed that his companion had already gone to the dark side. "...Ugh. Ew."

"Just wait," Kukui laughed, pounding Guzma's shoulder with his fist. "When you get older, you'll like girls, too."

Guzma winced, rubbed his shoulder, and blustered at the implication. "You're only like a _year older_ than me!"

"Yeah! So you'll catch up before you know it!"

Some time passed for Guzma to steam and Kukui to completely miss it.

"Hey, Guz. Do you think our kids will be friends, too?"

It took a moment for Guzma to process the deeply stupid question. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"You know!" Kukui skipped a step and aimed his foot at a rock, kicking it down the road. He looked jovial and excited. "When we both get married someday―an' when we have kids―do you think our kids will be friends? I think that would be neat, yeah!"

"I'm not getting married," Guzma contradicted fiercely.

"Why not?"

He didn't expect to get interrogated. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and tried to wait out the painful flips in his stomach. Heat creeped upward over his face. "I―I dunno, it's gross, is all."

Kukui frowned, uncertain. "What, like the kissing and stuff?"

With a furious snort, Guzma sneered and pushed past him. He concealed his burning embarrassment by facing ahead. "Do you know _anything_? How do you think babies happen, huh?"

Instead of answering right away, Kukui backed up a few steps, took a running start, and cartwheeled several times on the grass growing alongside the road. His cap fell off immediately, but he persisted until he landed on his hands back on the path in front of Guzma. He paused in a hand-stand, lazily kicking his legs in the air, his shirt falling around his head to reveal the muscles and rib-dimples of his puffing chest. "I don't get what's gross about it," Kukui blathered, finally rolling back upright. "You get married, you go to the tapu, an' you pray and ask for a baby and―"

"Are you serious? You're in _sixth grade_ and you still believe that!?"

It was Kukui's turn to be embarrassed. He flushed, scrambled to his feet, and hurried to retrieve his hat, pouting as he did. "Whatever," Kukui said. He sounded a little wounded. "What do you know, anyway?"

It wasn't worth fighting over. Kukui's father taught health class at school, anyway, and Guzma knew that topic was formally covered in the seventh grade―so Kukui would have to endure compound humiliation next year, unless Lokelani decided to talk the birds and bees with his son beforehand.

"Anyway― _I'm_ gonna get married, and have, like, ten kids, yeah!"

* * *

Kukui's father, Lokelani, was known by most kids on the island as simply "Coach," because within their small community, if there was a sport or physical activity to be had, the man was sure to be a part of it. He also worked as the school gym teacher, which made him yet another individual impossible to avoid. Lokelani was an imposing figure, especially to those who didn't know him: he stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and impressive, lean muscles. His chin had a sizeable but neatly-trimmed beard to offset the messiness of his hair, which he allowed to grow long and tangled and put up in a top knot when it became too much of a hassle. If one ever needed to find Lokelani in a pinch, a sure bet would be to hit the beach, because he spent hours surfing and swimming almost every day, as his tawny, sun-kissed skin clearly showed.

Though responsible for leading countless athletic clubs and teams (many of which Kukui participated in), Lokelani by most descriptors qualified as a conservative, religious man and had never been terribly competitive. He preferred to enjoy the leisure of outdoor play: the feel of grass in the soccer field, the waves licking the surfboard, the crunch of gravel at home base. In that way, as he was in other ways, Lokelani was an old-school native islander, a sort of man going extinct in Alola: the warrior monk who both taught and practiced physical feats not to glorify oneself, but to glorify life.

As such, Lokelani possessed firm traditional values, which had always turned Guzma off. He would sermonize in the middle of class, extolling the virtues of cooperation and hard work, and denouncing the unequivocal evils of laziness, rebellion, gluttony, and other such sins. Guzma heard that as students got older, the man's preaching broadened to similarly warn against bodily vices―drinking, smoking, premarital sex―which only served to cement Guzma's impression that the man was a blathering, moralistic crank. How many times had Guzma been forced to sit through one of Coach's 'your body is sacred' spiels at the beginning of gym? In any case, none of it had ever struck Guzma as true or applicable to his own life circumstances, so he usually yawned and shut his eyes, listening to the giggles and whispers around him rather than yielding to those sappy lectures.

Guzma didn't speak with Lokelani much outside of school, even though the man had always been welcoming and inclusive, inviting him over, feeding him, treating him like another son. The fact was, Coach intimidated him with his size and brawn. He also had a very faint, but charged memory of the man scolding him once, when he was maybe five or six.

Perhaps Guzma shouldn't have held it against him. After all, while Lokelani shared Hala's strictness and old-world-values, he had a discernment the kahuna lacked.

* * *

When Kukui pushed open the front door, the strong odor of grilled meat and pineapple flew into their faces. A steady plume of steam and smoke flowed out from the stovetop, tended to by familiar, broad shoulders.

" _I'M HOME!_ " Kukui announced with a characteristic lack of volume control.

It was just as well. With all the hissing of the grill and fans, Lokelani only just heard him. The man turned, spotted them over the countertop, and smiled, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. "Hey, sport!" He hurried to flip a few items before approaching the near side of the kitchen and poking his head out. "Aw, howzit, Guzma?"

"Um." Guzma averted his eyes and mumbled, politely, "Hi, Coach."

"Didn't expect to see you here today. And so late. Especially―" Lokelani's expression narrowed in Kukui's direction. "-Since I told you to come straight home today."

"I did," Kukui protested, his voice squawking unconvincingly.

Lokelani must have known Kukui was lying, because he looked to Guzma and tilted his head in a stern and silent, ' _is that true?'_ expression.

Guzma only said, "We met up on the way home."

"Uh-huh." Lokelani seemed torn for the moment between scolding Guzma for colluding with his son's deception, or commending him for his loyalty. He squeezed his temple with his fingers and sighed. "Well, so long as you're here, are you staying for dinner?"

"No…" Guzma thought on that a second longer. "I don't think so."

"In that case, you'd better head on home. Kukui has chores he's been putting off all week, so he won't be able to play today."

...Great. Kukui had decided to drag him to his house in the midst of some domestic drama. Guzma eyed the door and wondered how quickly he could make his escape.

But the whining picked up immediately; Kukui hopped with tension. "D-a-a-ad! Can't I just show him my _thing_ really quick!"

"Your what-now?"

"The thing I got yesterday!"

"Oh!" Lokelani, in spite of himself, smirked. "All right, but make it quick. Dinner's in five."

With that news, Kukui wasted no time; he seized Guzma by the arm and yanked him toward his bedroom with sheer, unrelenting force. He threw the door open, knocking some equipment over in the process: a bat, a racket, some sneakers. Then they had to kick aside and step over unsorted piles of clothes, but they reached his desk, at which he rifled through a drawer swimming with trinkets, pokeball, and papers. His hand paused after touching what must have been the object of interest, because Kukui looked up and grinned at him, readying the reveal. "A-a-and―" He pulled it out and stuck it in Guzma's face. "Ta-da!"

A challenge amulet.

Guzma shouldn't have been surprised. But he was.

Kukui had talent―that much, he could acknowledge―but Guzma had never thought of him as a serious opponent. The kid usually slid in comfortably at fourth or fifth place at tournaments, as he battled like a complete goofball, spamming moves at seemingly random times. He didn't fuss about winning or coming out on top. He just belly-laughed and tried to have fun. Besides, he spent more time playing with his partners than training them. Guzma had always assumed Kukui would settle for a more leisurely path to adulthood.

Guzma felt the small, slow, burning crawl of resentment make its way up his throat.

Kukui rattle on as if Guzma had said anything at all. "That's right! I'm going on my island challenge, yeah! I went to Ol' Hala's yesterday and picked this up. I'm goin' to him for special training starting next week! A couple other kids will be there… I know Big Mo for sure. It's gonna be amazing!" The boy gripped the amulet in his fist and clawed his hair. "Augh! It'll feel like forever! I just can't wait, you know? I'll be takin' on the captains, and the kahunas, and I'm gonna prove what I'm made of!"

The embedded gems gleamed and winked at Guzma. He thought about another summer squandered at home around an eternally-volatile father, or perhaps finding himself wrapped up in schemes not of his own making.

"And who knows! In a couple'a years, maybe I'll try out to be a captain, too!"

"Well, I―"

It was too late. Guzma had opened his mouth, and Kukui waited with bated breath for him to finish.

"I―" Though he could have taken it back, a sudden surge of desire passed through him. His voice turned firm and certain as he, on the spot, made his decision. "I'm starting my challenge, too."

"REALLY?"

"I'm… gonna get my amulet tomorrow, and…"

Like his Rockruff, Kukui tended to express joy through a good tackle, and Guzma tended to forget this, leaving him vulnerable to attack. So in one sudden swoop, the kid grabbed him, sent him to the floor, and shook him madly, ignoring Guzma's shock and groaning at landing hard on his back.

"THAT'S AMAZING!"

Weak and pinned, Guzma made a sad effort to push him. "Get _offa_ me."

"WE'RE GONNA DO OUR TRIALS TOGETHER!"

Thankfully, Lokelani heard the violent thud and called out from the kitchen: "Kukui! No horseplay in the house!"

A hefty sigh and shuffle of obedience brought Kukui and Guzma back to their feet. Guzma grumbled and checked that nothing in his backpack had been profoundly disturbed by the fall, but Kukui couldn't stop ranting.

"You'll have to come to Master Hala's with us! Aw, man! Doing this together is gonna make it way more fun!" Kukui folded his arms and did his best impression of an adult. "We're gonna have to fight each other sometimes, though. We'll still be friends afterward, right?"

 _We're barely friends as it is._

Because Guzma hesitated to answer, Kukui took it as a challenge and again screamed at him, shoving him hard. "SWEAR!"

"Ow!" Guzma rubbed his chest and glowered. "Fine, whatever."

"KUKUI! DINNER!"

"COMING!"

If Guzma ever had to wonder where Kukui got his voice, time spent in his house dispelled it.

* * *

While Kukui set the table and fulfilled other childhood supper duties, Guzma found his chance to slink out the door without further assault. Outside, he could see the last glint of sunlight singing the sky, and dusk began to fall over the island. He didn't have much time.

But one last interruption came.

"Hey… Guzma."

Guzma stepped out onto the dirt footpath leading up to the house, then turned around. Lokelani had emerged and shut the door behind him. He stood tall, his eyes burning with intent.

"You know, it's good you stopped by. Let's have a quick chat, yeah?"

His stomach sank. Was he in trouble? He didn't need trouble now. Not from this massive man who didn't hesitate to pick up a phone and call someone's parents. What was this guy's problem!? Why was he always in someone else's business? Why…?

The frantic flow of angry thoughts was cut short when Lokelani asked, "Is everything okay?"

"H-huh?"

"You seem a little on edge today."

Stunned, Guzma tried to dodge the observation. "I don't… I don't _think_ that I am."

"No?" For a long, heartwrenching second, Lokelani stroked his beard and hummed with thought. Finally, he revealed his purpose. "Y'know… Kids talk. And I know they sometimes think grownups aren't listening, but… I overheard someone say you and Kawika are going to have a fight after school tomorrow."

"I―" Guzma felt his mouth go dry. He bunched up his shoulders. "Just-a pokemon battle, that's all…"

"Guzma. I wasn't born yesterday," Lokelani chided gently. "I know how it is. You have beef, yeah? And now you're going to try and settle it, man-to-man."

Guzma chose to say nothing, even though words stuck in his throat.

"In my day, we did that plenty. So I understand. And you know―it's good for kids to try and solve their own problems if they can. That's how you become a man, yeah? But Guzma―if things get too deep, if you're scared or don't know what to do―it's okay to ask for help."

"I'm not…" Guzma buried his hands deep in his hoodie pocket, and felt his face flare up with embarrassment. The pocket knife inside touched his fingers. He gripped it tight and began nervously flipping it over as the word flew at him: _Scared._ Kawika, by most measures bigger and stronger than him, telling him to his face that _I heard your mom's a―_ He couldn't even allow himself to remember. But he did remember how intensely he wanted to bury a knife in the other boy's face. _Scared_. Scared of Kawika first, then himself, of what he was becoming. Guzma tightened his throat. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?" Lokelani ruminated on his reluctance to speak. He scratched his chin and said, "You know you can talk to me, right? If someone's bothering you―"

"I think," Guzma interrupted, paused, and swallowed, all while shaking with nerves. "I should get home. It's kinda late."

"O-oh. Alright, little man. You be safe."

Guzma had never been so relieved to leave that house.

* * *

Alone.

Finally.

The truth was, Guzma felt no rush to get home. He took the path closer to the cliff-sides than to his house, and settled at an edge from which he could see far out over the sea. Day-dreaming overtook his view. Up until a few minutes ago, he could see nothing of his future but imminent strife, but for now, he could push that aside and think beyond it.

The Island Challenge.

Was he stupid? Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. He didn't even know for sure that Hala would let him start. What if he went to the old man tomorrow and he rejected him…?

 _Tomorrow_.

Tomorrow?

What was _wrong_ with him?

He was supposed to fight Kawika tomorrow.

Even the most basic of forward-thinking told Guzma that this was bad timing. Hala would frown on a schoolyard fistfight, and he couldn't hope to hide it from him, because whenever he got in trouble, Hala heard about it. Guzma could _hear_ the man's disapproval in his head _: "This is behavior you think is fit for an Island Challenger? Perhaps you'd better wait another year…_ "

Angry at himself, Guzma kicked a rock over the edge and watch it grind and splinter dustily into the sea. His fists balled up at his sides. Why did nothing work out for him?

"The trials are stupid, anyway," he told himself.

Waves crushed against the rocks like slapping palms.

"I can't chicken out."

But the more he reasoned it out, the more he remembered how little he wanted the fight in the first place.

As he looked through the sky, he pushed his hands in his pocket. The knife was still there, and he drew it out. In the bronze evening light, it shone orange, a torch of gleaming light. He admired it, but couldn't escape the troubling circumstances of its retrieval.

He had admitted to, as plainly as he could, thoughts of killing―and Daturo handed him a knife.

Even Guzma knew how perverse that was. What kind of person would do that?

A synapse fired, and for the first time in his life, he ascribed a value to an adult: _irresponsible_.

He had never thought of an adult as a moral actor; he thought of them more as capricious beasts, turning with the wind, at times cruel, at times benevolent. But to think of them as flawed…? As prone to failure in judgment, or feebleness… That thought soured his stomach and shook his frame with terror. The very gods who ruled his life―daily telling him what to do, how to do it, where to go, and what truth is―what were they, more than larger children who bumbled around and did as they pleased? Who saw _him_ as an object by which they could punish the misery in their lives, or satisfy their illicit desires, or show off their virtue?

Guzma chewed his bottom lip.

He turned the knife over in his hand.

The good in him wanted to chuck the knife into the ocean and never think of it again. He even drew back his arm a little, like he meant to skip it across the waves. But his fingers clawed tight, desperate, needing. He couldn't let go of it, not quite yet.

 _I'll be a good person,_ he vowed. _Someday. Just not now. Not yet._

So he put it away.

In the end, he would think of some way to circumnavigate Kawika and attain a more delectable goal. His father would be pleased to live vicariously through his successes (his father used to be a trainer, a someday-Champion, before unexpected family life overthrew his plans). His mother would cry (that's all she ever did these days). He would get as far as he could until fate stepped in and mediocrity caught up with him.

And all along the way, the knife stayed. It poked and prodded him, a thorn in his flesh, drifting from one pocket to another, wounding others throughout the years. The knife never changed, and it grew smaller in his hands as he grew older, but its weight seemed to escalate, dragging him with memories. Once, he cut a rival's arm with it. Once, he cut a cop's leg with it to escape arrest. Once, in the dark, with no one around, he held it against the skin of his wrist and couldn't do it.

His extra tooth to bare. His id. His fury.

* * *

To survive, he had to pocket all of this and turn for his house. The home glowed against the steadily-growing darkness, a candle flickering along on the hillside. When he had the amulet in his hand the next day, he thought, everything would feel more certain. He would see his future… and grab it with both hands.


	38. Addendum Two: No Man Is An Island

A Meowth's claws dug into Nanu's chest.

Since he was currently dozing, this pain barely registered at first, but the sensation of sharp needles piercing the fabric of his shirt and then his skin started to shake him from dreamless sleep. He snorted. Then he tried to slip over onto his side to sleep more comfortably on the sofa, to no avail, as several other Meowth had piled onto his body and refused to budge.

"Hrrngh."

The one arm that wasn't currently being used as a pillow reached up at the Meowth's dagger-like paws.

"Hey. Easy."

The cat purred and, rather than heeding his suggestion, yawned and flexed its toes in a kneading movement, burying the nails even harder into his chest.

" _Ow_."

Now he was about to lose his patience. He reached for the nape of its neck, and was ready to knock it to the floor, but the front doors of the police station rattled. For the moment, he didn't notice, as the collection of Meowth's ears perked up. The doors rattled again―and slammed open like a thunderclap, backed with children screeching.

Nanu's flesh was lanced on all sides with needles. The cats leaped, clawed, and flayed him as they scrambled apart and shot underneath tables; he cursed and flailed, breathless after one Meowth bounced hard over his stomach, and shredded when another launched itself over his legs with claws unsheathed.

" _UNCLE_!"

He moaned, clutched his wounds, and rolled stiffly to his feet. He knew what this meant. Was it that time already? The days he had nothing to do, the hours all bled together. A quick glance over the counter told him he was right: the grunts had arrived.

Nothing continued to jar him like seeing the group of brats in their school uniforms. Their heads clustered about, little bobs of pink, blue, green, purple hair that they had refused to give up, which mismatched entirely with their conservative green uniforms. Some of the Skull girls had even flat-out refused to wear the mandatory skirts that typically came with the female uniforms; it took some careful reasoning from Kahuna Nanu before the principal surrendered on that issue.

With shuffling feet, Nanu approached the waiting area and read their body language. Excited, as usual. Abuzz about something. He felt a headache coming on just looking at them. They dripped from the rain but were so used to the weather that it didn't temper their mood at all. When Nanu clawed for a mug and poured a cup of lukewarm leftover coffee, the group flocked toward him. The kids then hopped and argued until Zazi could no longer contain her excitement.

She blurted, "Chops cussed out our teacher!"

Nanu pretended to be surprised. "...Really."

"Yeah! He's bein' held after school and _everything_!"

"...And why'd he do that?"

"'Cause he was actin' a fool! And Miss Jade told him to chill!" She tossed her head and huffed, acting thoroughly offended. "That boy is so disrespectful!"

Nanu shook his head. The kids loved to get in trouble, but more than anything, he'd discovered, they _adored_ telling on each other; nearly every day they'd crowd the doorway upon their walk home from school, chanting, _guess what so-and-so did!? Ain't that crazy, Uncle!?_ He supposed it was their way of posturing, angling for his approval. It did get tiring, though.

"You oughta smack that boy, Mr. Nanu."

Nanu rolled his eyes and sipped on his coffee. "I'll let Rainbow handle that, thanks."

"Big sis is too busy," Buzz complained. "She hardly ever around no more."

"Where do you think she is?"

"Duh. She's with Molayne. Y'know, training."

Nanu nodded somberly. "Uh-huh."

"Tch." Nene lifted his hands and made air-quotes. "We all know what kinda 'training' they doin'―the horizontal kind―"

"Hey," Nanu gruffed, giving the boy a muted but still sharp rap on the head with a clipboard. "Shut it."

"Ow-uhh!"

Nanu waggled the clipboard after him and lectured, "Don't you kids know anything? You're in Alola. No one does that nonsense here until after they're married."

Nene rubbed his head and sucked his teeth. "What? That ain't true."

"Sure it is. 'Less you want the wrath of the tapu on your head."

"That don't even make sense! You just made that up, gramps!"

Nanu straightened his back and tucked the clipboard under his arm, his voice taking on a serious, imposing tone. "I'm the kahuna. I don't make things up."

Nene and Buzz glanced at each other, screwing their faces up with thought, but they were too dumb to think of a retort. They didn't seem to believe him, but neither were they able to completely dismiss his warning.

(He felt only a _little_ bad for messing with them. They'll be real teenagers soon, he reasoned. They'll figure out this stuff for themselves soon enough―and by then, hokey old wives' tales won't do much good, anyway. He ought to know.)

Zazi cleared her throat and dropped her bag from her shoulders. "Hey, Uncle. We had a test today. Wanna see?"

The grunts didn't wait for him to answer; the moment she made mention of it, they scrambled to release their own bags and dig through their papers.

Zazi had started all of this months ago. One day after school, she stopped by the station, beaming and producing her latest score on an exam to elicit some form of approval from the old kahuna. Nanu, who mostly wanted her to leave, did take a look at it and offered faint praise. So she asked if he could hang it on his fridge―an extension of some tradition she remembered from her old home―and to humor her, he agreed. This, however, began a heated contest among the younger grunts as they quite suddenly envied the attention and ascribed mythical properties to being deemed Worthy Of the Fridge. Soon, the kids began routinely stopping by and shoving _their_ work in his face, begging for the honor. Nanu regretted starting the whole trend (it was a pain, an annoyance, and he had to buy more magnets to appease their demands), but he didn't have the heart or willpower to shut it down.

"Okay, okay, one at a time. Whaddaya got?"

The five of them immediately began speaking over each other and pushing papers into view. Zazi, as usual, had won out; she had a noggin on her, a fact that she only realized once she started attending school. Nene and JJ had middling grades to offer. Slip took a passing glance at his own sheet, eyed the others' scores, and mumbled something as he hid it away again.

"A 78's almost a B," Nene argued.

Nanu emphasized: " _Almost_."

Buzz then slammed his paper down, breaking the group's chatter. "I gotta 62," he bragged.

"That's a D," Zazi said. "That means you're D-U-M-B."

Nanu intervened with a firm, "Hey, now. This is the first one he hasn't flunked; that's not bad at all." He picked it up, examined it, clicked his tongue, and decided, "Let's post it as a 'Most Improved.'"

Buzz beamed and pumped his fists, wagging his hips in a goofy celebration pose. "'Eyyy! Whassup!"

"That's not fair!"

"It is too!"

"You got the worst score!"

"You _always_ get good grades though!"

Nanu had managed to tune out their clawing and hissing long enough to fasten the paper to an uncovered portion of his refrigerator, and just when he turned to shoo them out, someone knocked at the door.

Their arguing hushed; all of them threw puzzled looks at the entrance.

A flash of annoyance crossed the kahuna's face. "Criminy. Can't get a moment's peace around here. Zazi."

The girl squeaked with compliance and went over to welcome whoever this unwelcome guest might be. She swung open the door, took one hard look into the murky afternoon, and called out over her shoulder, "It's some guy."

"Thanks for the intel," Nanu said, exasperated. "What's he selling?"

"Um..." She stuck her head out to interrogate, and reported out, "He, like, wants to talk to you?"

No point in barricading the door. He sighed. "Well, get him outta the rain already."

Zazi nodded, instructed the visitor, and stepped back. All of them waited to see who would enter.

A man stepped in.

A shirt of explosive, radioactive color stuck out from the rainy gloom like a beam of sunlight; the orange, yellow, and green colors were arranged in a kaleidoscope of floral design common to those summer shirts worn on the islands, especially by visitors. The man also wore long khaki shorts, sandals, and sunglasses, completing the vacationer's look. A plain black umbrella covered his head, but after crossing the threshold into the station, he folded it, sending its moisture rolling onto the floor.

Because the clothing did not match the profile of anyone Nanu came into regular contact with, his brain at first fired off: _stranger_. But he kept looking, adjusted his vision, and features came into view, piecing together a familiar form―tall, lanky, swooped brown hair, sharp nose.

"Looker."

A smile overcame Looker's initial measured expression; he lifted his sunglasses to his forehead. "Ah," he said, spying Nanu's presence behind the grunts. "Nanu. What a pleasure it is to see you again! I see you're counselling your wards. A worthy pursuit." Looker directed his words then to his uncomfortable, captive audience. "Good afternoon, young people. Studying hard in school, I hope?"

The man's chipper attitude did not win over the children. They took one suspicious glance at him, looked to one another, and came to the collective, silent conclusion that they needed to beat it. Nene spoke for them all: "Yo, we out."

With quick, bustling movements, they pushed past him and left out the door, leaving them alone. Looker, bless his heart, looked only mildly confused by their rebuff, and not at all hurt.

Nanu felt his hand press against his crown. This had better not turn into a headache. He didn't have the foggiest idea why Looker had chosen to appear now and here, of all times and places. He hadn't seen the agent in months, and rather safely assumed that Looker and Anabel had gone on their way. No business remained on the islands for them to clean up, as far as Nanu could tell.

Trying to read Looker's face for answers never did much good. As usual, the man's eyes burned with steady, unchanging intensity, like they searched for something that would never be found; the smile he opened the conversation with had since steepened into a strong, contemplative line. He appeared neither disturbed nor excited―if news was to be shared, Nanu couldn't fathom what it might be.

Nanu decided to break the silence. "Well. Didn't expect you to show."

Instead of responding immediately, Looker furrowed his brow and froze, like a machine caught in a difficult calculation.

"...You want coffee?"

The offer jarred the gears back into motion; Looker blinked. "That would be appreciated."

They didn't speak, but Nanu, in his own way, silently gave Looker permission to enter into his living space and find a seat. The kahuna turned back for the kitchenette and the agent followed, dodging purring, curious companions as he stepped for the couch. The furniture, not ready for company, was piled high with papers and laundry, but Looker was too polite to say anything about it, so he merely brushed aside the debris and sat.

"It's not fresh," Nanu warned him. "It'll be like the good old days."

By the time the kahuna turned around with coffee ready, a Meowth had claimed Looker's lap. Pleased, the agent stroked the creature's head. "It's no matter," he said. "I want to speak with you. That's the priority."

"I figured," Nanu answered, resisting the temptation to pull sarcasm. He pulled up a chair, placed the coffee down, and crossed his legs. " _So_. The, uh, tourist disguise is decent. Looks like the kids can still smell the cop on you, though."

"Hmm?" Like he'd forgotten his get-up, Looker patted his shirt down. His face brightened. "Oh―this is no disguise, my friend. My vacation is in full swing, and the heavy coat and suit… struck me as unnecessary and cumbersome for the climate."

"A coat mighta done you some good in this rain, but yeah, I guess you're right."

Looker paused. By now, he should have launched straight into his purpose for coming here, but he dawdled, plucking the porcelain mug from the table and taking tentative, wincing sips at it.

"...It's been a while, Looker. There a reason you're popping in out of the blue?"

"You're right," Looker rambled, dodging the latter question. "It's' been… Oh, about four months now, since we've last spoken. I apologize for not visiting you sooner. After completing our investigation, we had to return to Sinnoh for debriefing and training, and we only returned last week for our holiday."

 _Together?_ Nanu didn't think it normal for a chief and her subordinate to vacation so mutually, and he thought about teasing the agent for it, but he knew Looker would miss any innuendo he came up with. He smirked. "I see. Been busy, huh." (Maybe just a _little_ innuendo couldn't hurt.)

"Busy indeed. While I was away, though, I saw you in the news." Looker said this as if it would please his former supervisor; all it did was wipe the smirk off Nanu's face.

"Uh, you didn't see _me_."

"Perhaps I didn't _see_ you. But you were prominently mentioned. That event looked like quite an adventure."

Right. The wedding―or _attempted_ wedding, rather―had been the talk of the local news for several weeks. The coverage was breathless and overwrought. _A boat! Hijacked by Team Skull! The president of Aether trapped! The kahuna of Ula'ula held captive by thugs!_ Nanu griped, "Journalists should keep their noses outta people's personal business." A thought occurred to him. "That isn't what you wanted to talk about, is it?"

"Oh, no. That matter seems resolved, _non_?" Looker's face fell. He stared down into the black pool of burnt coffee. "No, the fact is, I have… something to confess."

"Uh." Nanu thought for a second. "Does it have to do with Chief…? I'd be the wrong guy―"

"My confession is… I believe I've stumbled into a case."

"A case?" Nanu scratched the shoulder of a Meowth wriggling its way against his leg. "On your vacation?"

"Yes! So that's why… I've done some informal investigating, that's all."

"How's Anabel feel about that?"

Looker clutched a hand to the nape of the Meowth's neck, overcome with discomfort.

"...You haven't told her, have you."

"If my suspicions prove true, then I'll tell her," Look vowed. "Until then… I don't want to trouble her."

Nanu smirked again. Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, starting to enjoy the occasional off-the-books snooping. Maybe he wasn't so hopeless after all. "So, what's this mystery case?"

"To give you some context," Looker began, swallowing his nerves with a visible gulp, "I first must describe where the case began. After you left the agency… The UB-extraction team was dissolved. Anabel was sent into training to become an agent, and for several years I worked individually in Kalos. Then, and this was about six years ago, I was briefly assigned to a much different task force. You see, that year, an incident occurred at Aether Paradise at its former location in Kalos. Its president and head scientist went missing."

"Mohn."

Looker stiffened again.

"I know his kids and his wife―sort of. Interpol went looking for him?"

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Looker muttered. "Interpol and Aether have never seen eye-to-eye. Professor Mohn especially was never very forthcoming about his experiments with UB's and wormholes. He must have feared what the agency would do with his research. But of course Interpol desperately wanted that information, and as such… I believe their intention was to find him first."

' _First_.' Nanu felt a chill ride up the hairs on his arm. Of course Interpol would be up to their old tactics. No qualms about using people as bait… Or captive sources of information. No doubt if they found Mohn, they would keep him, stow him away for safety.

Sensing Nanu's distaste, Looker shook his head. "It didn't matter in the end. The task force failed. Mohn was never found and the case was sealed."

This proved not to be a subtle transition into the agent's news; Nanu stared emptily at Looker's fidgeting form.

"...I imagine… By now, you understand what I am about to suggest."

"A lead."

"It's no longer my case. I certainly didn't seek it out…" Looker met his eyes. "Nanu. Are you familiar with the island hermits in your region?"

"Sure. There's a long history o' that 'round these parts."

"Have you met any of them?"

Nanu cocked an eyebrow. "They're _hermits_ , Looker. Not social butterflies."

"Well, I have. I met one the other day. And it was a most interesting meeting."

* * *

And so Looker told the story of how he met the Hermit of the Pelago:

One of the first things Looker did upon arriving in Alola for his long-awaited vacation was visit the tourist bureau. If nothing else, he hoped to find some information to dive into, or some ideas to bounce off locals before he committed to them. Most of the pamphlets and advertisements covered the usual fare for visitors: exploratory cruises, guides, hot springs, hotels, photography tours. One advertisement in particular, however, caught his attention. In bright, glossy font, a pamphlet named and described a _Pokemon Pelago_ available for visitation.

Intrigued, he asked an employee about it. She cheerfully informed him that the Pelago was a collection of tiny islands north of Akala and Ula'ula; until just recently, she said, no one much bothered with the area, as it was extremely remote, lay out of the path of any fishing boats or traveling ships, and offered no real amenities for humans. As far as anyone ever knew, the Pelago was only occupied by a small, unremarkable population of wild creatures.

Almost half a year ago, though, a fisherman by the name of Mr. Takada made a peculiar discovery while trawling the northern sea. After an unsuccessful fishing trip out west, he had cut around the islands to reach a spot he hoped would be more fruitful. Instead, he caught sight of activity on a small island and, overcome with curiosity, steered his boat toward it.

The fisherman stopped at the island to find, to his shock, a man living in a thatch hut all alone. The stranded man acted extremely erratic and nervous, and nearly scared off Takada before any conversation could be had, but in time, the man calmed down enough to inform his baffled visitor that he had been living on the remote isle for quite some time―he estimated at least a year. Graciously, Takada offered him a trip back to nearby civilization, but for reasons that were not explained, the castaway refused. He preferred, it seemed, the company of his wild partners: indeed, he only survived as long as he had thanks to the help of the pelago's friendly pokemon population.

Overall, the man's condition was good, aside from being a little dehydrated. His appearance, however, left much to be desired, with his hair wild and unkempt, his face covered in a scraggly beard, and his clothes tattered to almost nothing.

By the end of that first visit, Takada agreed to come back with supplies, and thus, a trade route was born. From that day onward, the fisherman made frequent stops to the Pelago, giving the hermit access to varied foods, self-grooming supplies, rope, wire, glass bottles, clothing… All in exchange for the pelago's only viable natural resource: beans. Thankfully, the cafes, salons, and pokemon breeders on the inhabited islands coveted the agricultural product, and so Takada ran a successful side-business selling bundles of the beans at Poni Island's port. As this business expanded, though, so did the hermit's tastes and… unusual requests. The day the blonde, blue-eyed mystery man handed Takada a list in fine handwriting, asking for such exotic equipment as a "parabolic reflector," "steel actuator," "140-watt soldering iron," "50 yards of copper wire," and "capacitor and resistor," he realized that this was no ordinary fellow.

In any case, Takada didn't argue. Many items he had to order overseas, and each time he brought the hermit equipment, he found the man building something new: a satellite dish, a functional radio, a network connectivity station. Most of it ended up on the hermit's home raft, a large, well-crafted floating structure anchored between the Pelago's islands.

Then, one day a few months ago, the hermit opened up about his plan: he wanted to host a pokemon resort.

It was a bit of a shock, but the man had done the work. He had a PC system and network running from his raft, and after witnessing how the wild pokemon of the Pelago flourished, he thought there may be trainers who would like to allow their own partners to grow, play, train, and relax in said environment. He hadn't completely finished construction on all these islands, but he vowed that given the right amount of interest and investment, he could make the place a paradise. Takada might have been skeptical, but as a fair and honest man, he did as the hermit asked―he ordered pamphlets to the man's specifications, talked up the tourist bureau, and the Poké Pelago opened for business.

...And the hermit's name?

That was the funny part.

The pamphlet didn't name the owner of the pelago. The employee at the center didn't know, either. It wasn't until Looker decided to patronize the islands that he saw the man for himself and heard the name he chose to go by.

* * *

Nanu shielded his eyes against the wind and glinting ocean light in the waning afternoon.

Upon the boat Looker had rented, they headed northeast at high speed in an attempt to beat the setting of the sun. Nanu hoped he wouldn't regret this, but Looker sure could tell a story.

Over the roar of the engine and while he steered, Looker said, "Thank you for agreeing to accompany me."

Nanu grunted and rifled through Looker's notepad. He wanted to have everything certain by the time they arrived.

"As you can see, everything adds up."

"Yeah, except―ugh, your handwriting is bad as ever. What's this note here with the big, fat question mark?"

Looker cupped his eyes, read the paper in the shade, and nodded. "Ah―yes. That denotes his lack of U.R. signature. I was hoping you could interview him and make what you could of that. It's a puzzling detail, but perhaps something in his story would enlighten us."

No Ultra Radiation? That didn't seem right. Nanu spent the next several minutes scribbling his own notes in pen, outlining whatever theories he could spin off the top of his head. But with everything else in consideration, he couldn't come up with an alternate explanation for Looker's story.

And to think… This was under their noses the whole time.

After almost forty minutes of zipping along the waves, they saw the small collection of islands rise up out of the sea, shadowy hills with faint murmurs of green. In between them, there lay some peculiar, bobbing apparatus that became clearer as they neared; it was some form of thatch house boat.

Looker steered the boat to a landing which was built into the apparatus and made of rugged planks of wood. It didn't look terribly sturdy, but from inside the shack, a cloth tarp flapped, and Mohn appeared.

The plump, tanned fellow with sun-bleached hair hopped down a step and trotted over to the landing, hooting a quick greeting before he snagged the dock line from Looker and helped tie it to a sturdier plank. Mohn wore what Nanu would describe as the typical beach bum outfit: tattered shorts smeared with sand, sleeveless white shirt, a broad-brimmed straw hat that had been ripped by the wind. He was sweating profusely from exertion, but showed no sign of irritation or stress, instead nodding to them in a jovial manner and inviting them to deboard.

"Careful, now! She teeters a bit. Especially with three people."

Looker stepped down first, then Nanu. The kahuna realized then what Mohn meant; the whole apparatus tilted a half-inch off-kilter, dipping the planks and soles of their shoes in sea water.

"Come on! Let's head inside."

Nanu came to better understand the platform by walking on it. It wasn't built like a ship, but like a raft, with layers upon layers of wood, glass, and floatables affixed with ropes and netting. The house had been built atop it but had seen better days. Its walls were shabby planks of corkwood, worn with holes, brine, and mold. The worst of the damage had been patched with some craftsmanship, but Mohn―at least, the Mohn that Nanu knew of―was no carpenter. Sheet metal rusted away over their heads as they ducked through the entrance, and a powerful odor that mixed the unpleasant musk of fish and human hit them. Nanu flinched, Mohn didn't notice, and Looker pretended not to.

Despite the smell, the interior of the shack was surprisingly cozy. Clothes hung on the wall and over racks; bedding could be seen in the corner; a small hot plate sitting on a plank seemed to serve as a kitchen. Mohn had assembled a bamboo furniture set to simulate a sitting room, and cushions purchased from the islands made the seating bearable, so with prompting, both agents sat in chairs and Mohn flopped down onto the floor to be at level with a small serving table arrayed with fresh fruits. While the three of them settled, Pikipek, Toucannon, Wingull, and other birds flocked around a window hoping for food, but Mohn for the moment ignored them.

"It sure is good to see you again, Mr. Looker," Mohn said, blue eyes agleam. The country twang in his voice caused Nanu to remember a note Looker had made ( _accent: southern Kalos_ ). "Heck, I never thought my little ol' place would get you folks so interested! Is this another agent?"

 _Looker had told him he was police_? A rookie mistake, but maybe he meant to gain the man's trust.

Looker smiled and gestured. "This is my associate, Mr. Nanu."

Mohn looked at Nanu, saw his uniform jacket, and wrinkled his brow. "But you… are a police officer, right?"

"I'm a kahuna. You know what that is?"

"Oh! Oh, for sure!" Mohn scrambled to pry his straw hat from his head and smooth out his tousled gold hair. "Sorry, wow! I've never been graced with a kahuna before, what an honor!"

"It's… fine." Nanu waved, embarrassed. "You can put your hat back on."

The man listened, plopping the hat back atop his head.

"Mr. Nanu will be assisting me today."

"...Does that mean you've found something?"

Looker stole a glance over to the kahuna then crossed his arms, almost chiding their host. "Mr. Mohn. As I explained last time, I am here only to conduct an interview and collect evidence. If I can confirm your identity, then perhaps we can discuss such information."

A trace of unstated emotion― worry?-crossed Mohn's face. He began to fidget and drum his fingers on the tabletop.

"Perhaps you could summarize the information you've already told me. This would catch my partner up."

It wasn't necessary. Nanu had read all of Looker's notes. But asking someone to retell their story had strategic value; one could pick out lies or uncertainties by finding discrepancies between reports. It could also trip up a witness into letting a detail slip out that they had previously left out on purpose. That Looker asked for this could mean he was being careful―or he sensed something sketchy.

Nanu dipped his attention to a sheet of paper. He pretended to take notes.

"Uhh, well, there ain't much to tell, to be honest. Years ago, I washed up on shore on these here islands… Couldn't remember a thing from before that day. I didn't know where I'd come from, how I got there… No one was with me, so I didn't have much choice but to build shelter and survive. I knew there were islands nearby, but wasn't like I could reach 'em, so I got accustomed to livin' this way, with my pals here." He gestured for the hungry birds pecking at the windowsill. He beamed. "I got pretty good at building after a while. I started trading, and built my pelago resort. And… that's about it."

"You remembered nothing?" Nanu pressed.

"Er, nothin' substantial-like. I knew my name. I knew things about the world and all that. I had the sense I didn't eat meat… And I knew what kinda music I liked, favorite color, fears, that sorta thing. But no… memories, exactly."

Looker questioned him next. "Was there anything odd about the way you woke up?"

"' _Odd'_ … Yeah, you could say that. You know, when I first came to, I wondered if I was an astronaut."

"An astronaut?"

"Well―!" The silliness of his theory embarrassed him, but he explained, "Y-you see… I was wearing this strange, full-body suit…"

Looker furiously jotted down a note and showed it to him. _Radiation suit_.

Nanu nodded. That would explain the lack of radiation on him. The suit must have kept his body from being exposed, and the radiation signature washed off the suit when he landed in the water.

Mohn saw their silent exchange and became agitated. "W-was that important?"

"It was very helpful, Mr. Mohn," Looker assured him calmly. "Thank you."

On Nanu's notepad, he had scrawled nothing but a hard, inky spiral deepening in color and impression. Strange. All of it was strange.

"Where's the suit now?"

"Oh, it's long gone, sir. I cut up the fabric to make netting and rope, and they've been rotted away for years."

 _Years._ ** _Years_** _._ Nanu tapped his pen to paper and frowned hard, then flitted his cold, red eyes onto the man's nervous expression. "So. You been here for all this time, and nobody's ever wondered who you were."

The longer he stared at Mohn, the more the blonde man squired and avoided his gaze. "Uhh, I mean, I'm sure they have. I wondered, too."

"I'm confused," Nanu drawled, though something in his voice implied he was the opposite of confused. "You ever actually try to find out who you are? You know. Ask around, maybe look yourself up…"

Mohn swallowed and answered, "Well, no…"

"You printed ads, but you didn't put your name on them. Why?"

"I didn't―i-it slipped my mind."

"Heck, why not take a trip to the islands yourself? Put yourself out there? You been here all these years, and what exactly have you done? Didn't you wanna be found?"

That Looker hadn't interrupted and asked Nanu to be gentler meant the other agent sensed this, too. He must've gotten the same vibes when he visited previously.

Mohn, though, tried to grace through it by hoisting himself up to his feet and stammering, "You kn-know what I just realized? Mister―erm, Nanu, I haven't shown you around yet!"

The two agents eyed him as if to say in their silence: _neither of us are buying this_.

It didn't seem to matter to him; he moved to stall the inevitable. "It's your first visit! I'll give you a tour."

In a time pressure situation, Nanu could have rolled right through such a tactic. But the sun was setting, and they had nowhere to be.

* * *

Mohn brought them to Isle Aplenny in a tiny motorboat of his own, as he advised against trying to dock their larger boat amidst the rocky shore. The ride was brief but awkward and largely silent. Still, Nanu could derive some entertainment from seeing how Mohn had designed a system of living: the sandy beach drawn with lines from the countless previous landings, a wooden stand hosting a variety of buckets, and baskets overflowing with collected, multicolored beans. Evidently, he often collected more than he knew what to do with.

The moment Mohn grabbed hold of a pail, his mouth went. He proved unable to stop the flood of blather, telling stories, describing his crops, his wild friends (who started to peek out from bushes, eyes glinting in the evening), his methods of harvesting. He spoke so profusely that neither Looker nor Nanu had the will to stop him.

The beanstalks were a sight to behold; they burst at the seams with leaves and swollen stalk-flesh, and even in their curled, serpentine formation forced by the weight of their girth, their height reached the agents' waists. From under the leaves, green pods dangled, tantalizing in size and plumpness.

However, they hadn't come to admire his agricultural skills.

Mohn had been gathering bean pods, tossing them in his pail in a lackadaisical manner while he rambled― _plunk, plunk_ ―and Nanu was contemplating how to pry answers out of him.

Then Looker released a startled yelp.

Old detective instinct led Nanu to leap to the defensive, whirl around, and reach for his hip. But his alarm soon turned to amusement, because Looker had not been accosted by some band of criminals, but by an overexcited, flop-eared Rockruff. It had bruised the agent's ankles with its pebbly ruff and proceeded to drum its muddied paws on his legs, panting and wagging its tail with rabid intensity.

Nanu relaxed and smirked. "You alright there?"

"I'm not hurt," Looker said. He feebly tried to push the dog away with his leg. "Only… taken by surprise."

"You got treats in your pockets or something?"

Mohn, seeing the excitement, trailed back to their side, this time with an entire horde of wild pokemon following him. It hadn't taken the creatures long to catch on that harvested beans rested in his pail, so they murmured, pawed, whined, and gawked up at him while he grinned at Looker's predicament. "He remembers you from the last time you stopped by," Mohn observed, marveling. "Seems to have taken a real likin' to ya."

"Yes, I see."

At last, the Rockruff obeyed Looker's exhortations to _sit,_ and planted its rump on the ground, tail still wiggling.

Mohn scratched his chin. "Y'know, that there fella's a wild one. If you'd like to take it with you―"

"Oh! No, I…" Looker hesitated and frowned down at the eager pup. "I'm afraid I can't."

Mohn, catching onto something in his voice but not understanding it, wrinkled his brow. "Sorry; I assumed you were a trainer…"

"He was," Nanu said. He ignored Looker's look of admonishment. "He lost his partner a few years back."

"What!" Aghast, Mohn floundered and waved his hands about. "Geez, I―sorry, I'm a complete heel, aren't I? Shouldn'ta even brought it up…"

Looker was not often riled―he had an even-keeled temper that could weather nearly every indignation or offense―so Nanu didn't anticipate the steel-eyed glare the other agent gave him now. "Nanu is the one who should apologize," Looker snapped with a sudden surge of irritation. "He had no right to divulge that on my behalf."

While the two men exchanged glances, Mohn became uncomfortable. He looked between them, swallowed, and mumbled, "I'll― I'll be over there, collecting… Let you two… Um…" And with that, he bumbled to the other side of the island, a trail of pokemon squeaking and chasing his heels as he went.

They quietly contemplated matters for a while. It took only a moment for their eyes to break away and focus on other things; Looker softened and lingered his sight on the sea. Meanwhile, the Rockruff remained seated and watching Looker, though by now it sensed something amiss, so its tail went still and its head cocked quizzically to the side.

Nanu fixed his hands into his pockets and watched the shadows of the vines crawl along the grassy knoll. "You know―" He didn't turn. "Rockruff wouldn't be a bad choice. They're loyal. Good trackers. Most cops on the island got one."

"...Is that so."

It was Nanu's turn to tilt his head at him. If he didn't know better, and if he was the type to say it, he would have asked, _you wanna talk about it_? Instead, he measured his words. "Moving on can feel like betrayal. But it's not, you know."

"Chief―" Looker chomped down to correct his flub. He looked equal part distressed and grateful. "Nanu. I―wish to redirect our attention to the case at hand."

"It's your investigation," Nanu said with a shrug. "Tell me what you think."

Surreptitiously, Looker followed Mohn's pacing with his eyes. "Your intuition has told you there's something peculiar about his circumstances. I agree with your assessment." As he thought aloud, he stooped down to the ground and gave the Rockruff a polite pat on the head. "I told him about my status with the police because I thought it would lead to greater trust. Instead, he became more agitated and evasive. This tells me he's been avoiding looking into his identity."

"Mm-hmm."

"I can't say I understand it."

"I understand it," Nanu rebuffed. "Makes perfect sense."

Looker gave him a surprised, confused look.

"Woke up in strange circumstances with no memory. He ain't dumb. He knows he's not some regular Joe. He knows there's danger in throwing his name around."

"He must realize it's possible that he has a family he's left behind."

"And I'm sure he does. But that's a scary thing to look into―if you don't know what you're gonna find. Could be your family's glad you're gone. Or worse yet, they fell apart on account of your going. That's some heavy guilt to bear."

With a solemn nod, Looker signalled that he heard this theory and had no objections. However, his expression turned troubled. He fixed a finger to his chin. "He can't hide here forever."

"It's not really our decision."

"It won't be his, either. In his current state, the government will find him eventually. He will be found alone, an amnesiac, and without proper legal counsel. What will become of him then?"

Nanu could see the gears in Looker's head grinding away; he asked bluntly, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking…" Looker's face pointed straight at the white obelisk towering over the dark, Alolan horizon. "Aether would provide him ample legal protection. Should they know that their former president is alive and well."

"Hmm." Nanu slouched and leaned in close, his voice turning stern, as it might have been years ago, when he still served as Looker's superior. "Let me get this straight. You've gone and done a secret investigation on a case Interpol locked up years ago―so it's definitely not approved or in your jurisdiction―and you had unsupervised interviews, collected illegal evidence, and now that you've got your intel, you're gonna leak it to a third party, which will obstruct an Interpol investigation and might get your fired―or arrested."

"That is correct."

Nanu's blank face froze, then with the warmth of the breeze, contorted into a wicked grin. He slapped a hand to the back of his head and chortled. "Kid, I could kiss you."

"What?"

Ah, Looker. Not a bone of comedic understanding in his body. Nanu sighed and was about to restate what he meant in less crass terms, but his pocket vibrated, and a default medley chirped into the air. "Uh―forget it," he said, waving Looker's befuddlement aside. "Hold on."

This didn't bode well. Nanu hadn't been expecting a call. He dug through his pocket to reveal an unfamiliar number blinking on the phone's face. Area code looked foreign, but familiar. Normally he would ignore most phone calls, especially ones not identifiable by number, but...

"Gimme a second, will you? I'm gonna take this."

To give himself some privacy, Nanu traipsed down the hill until he reached the rocky shore where the boat currently rested, and he hurriedly flipped his phone open.

* * *

"Hello?"

An unfamiliar voice spoke into his ear.

"Speaking."

…

"Yeah, I… What? What happened?"

…

"Is he alright? How bad off is…?"

…

"Okay… Okay, uh, he has family, you know… Yeah, two kids, has he…? No, I'm a bit outta the way, ma'am, but his daughter lives a region over."

…

"Can you tell him it's a _twelve hour flight_? Tell him that. I can't―"

…

"When? Well, tell him not to."

…

"He's old as dirt, are you telling me you can't―!" Nanu released an exasperated sigh through his nostrils. "Can you hold? Yeah, just a minute." The kahuna planted the phone at his chest, spat a curse, and climbed the hill back over to Looker. The other man read his expression easily, and so stood up straight with concern before he managed to say anything. "I got a situation."

Looker, seeing the deep lines of worry in Nanu's face, knew there were only a few things on earth that could trigger such anxiety out of him, so Looker appropriately asked, "What's the matter?"

"It's personal." The blunt response had to be softened when he continued, "I need a favor. How fast can you get me on a plane to Viridian City?"

"Viridian City?" Before he could help himself, Looker connected every dot. "Is it Sullivan? Is he alright?"

Nanu prickled. " _Flights_ , Looker."

"I'll check with Chief. Maybe we can arrange something."

"...Thanks." Nanu finished his call with a few gruff, choice words, and hung up. After fishing through his pockets for a cigarette, he noticed Looker's continued, sympathetic gaze. He grunted with annoyance. "Put the puppy-look away. No one's dead or dying."

"Oh… That's good to hear." Looker was relieved, but knew he wouldn't be getting any more details. "We can head back to Ula'ula if you wish."

The lighter snapped with a tiny glow of flame in the dimming evening. It painted Nanu's face in orange light that only seemed to accent his ragged, contemplative, disquieted features. "It's no rush," he said. Smoke rose up to cloud his face. "Don't let my crap interrupt your work."

But Looker shook his head. "No more investigation is necessary. I am confident in my conclusion and I can handle it from here." Before Nanu could shy away, he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for your help. But family comes first."

 _Family_. Nanu wasn't sure about that. He glared at the hand currently touching him, willing it to move away.

With a flash of a smile, Looker released him and went to seek out Mohn, probably to excuse them and discuss next steps. Nanu stayed where he was and smoked his cigarette in billowing puffs, trying his best to choke out the clot of nerves starting in his head and shaking the tips of his fingers. Just his luck―of all days, all times. He had always prided himself in keeping cool and controlling his thoughts when they went sideways, but he couldn't reel them in now. He just couldn't stop.

He felt selfish just then. Until a few minutes ago, he had spent this entire excursion thinking of nothing but Mohn's fate, and how this discovery would upturn multiple lives, lives he had recently become more involved in than he intended. He could not help but imagine reunions and revelations, anger, tears, relief, confusion. But one phone call had sapped all of his interest in this story.

Nanu hated thinking about himself; it was what made him such a good detective. Men like that lose themselves in their work―get to live in other people's headspaces, follow other people's stories, all while neglecting the rotted corpse of their own personal issues. He would have been happy to ignore the call, and ignore the problem at the other end.

But it's just not how these things work.

On the way back to the island, Nanu said nothing, but in the dark, he considered who he would make responsible for feeding his Meowth while he was away.

* * *

 **UP NEXT** : A new story, "Unspoken."

口無し kuchinashi (n). Something that is unspoken.

When Nanu left Kanto to become an Interpol agent, he left behind more than a name.

After many decades away from home, Nanu receives an emergency call and heads back to Viridian City to deal with a personal issue. But once he gets there, a strange turn means he has to face some old demons, a healthy does of criminal intrigue, a hard-to-read ex-mob boss, and a plot that may wind up killing him.

Will I actually write it?! Will it be any good!? Maybe! Stay tuned to find out!


End file.
